


On the Children

by GlassPrism



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, background Willabeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassPrism/pseuds/GlassPrism
Summary: When nine-year-old Henry Turner sneaks aboard the Flying Dutchman in search of his father, three generations of Turner men are forced to reflect on fatherhood, abandoned sons, and the promises they make to each other. Takes place directly after the post-credits scene of AWE but heavily inspired by DMTNT. Published to FF.net on June 5, 2017; transferred to AO3 on November 4, 2018.





	1. Chapter 1

For as long as Henry could remember, it was just him and his mother, living in the small house by the cliff side near a tiny fishing village.

He loved his mother. She was a governor's daughter, which made her practically royal to Henry, but even if she wasn't, she was Pirate King. Not a Queen (he had once tried to correct her – "A woman can't be a king!"), but an actual King. But she didn't dress like it. Once or twice he had seen ladies with their narrow waists and bustled skirts walking through the village, but she liked to wear simple dresses and jackets made for men. But sometimes men would call upon her too, kissing her hand and calling her "Miss Swann" while Henry watched from the upper level, and only then would he see her pull out her sweetest smile and her extra gracious lilt in her speech, in order to tell them that, no, she was _Mrs. Turner_ now and as honored as she was by their attentions, she was waiting for her husband, and would they care for a cup of tea?

Her husband. His father.

She had told him the day he would come back; it was one of his first memories. She had told him that he had left her on this island and would return on that exact day, ten years later; that he would sail over the horizon, heralded by the green flash that meant that one had returned from the land of the dead.

It had been ten years. Henry had awoken at dawn with a fluttering in his stomach, to see his mother almost the same as always, her hair loose and wearing one of her loose dresses with only a jacket over it, and with a tiny, half-hidden smile on her face. His mother smiled much and often, but never quite like that, and never at him. That smile was reserved for his father.

Sunset had taken a very long time to come. Henry had skipped out to the cliff, humming the song his mother had taught him when he was just a little boy, and waited. Part of him wasn't sure if it _would_ happen, was thinking that nothing would disturb their idyll – but then his mother had put an arm around his shoulders and smiled faithfully out at the sea…

And just like that, he saw the light.

* * *

As soon it had faded, however, his mother was hurrying him back to the house.

Henry looked back in time to see the dark profile of the ship lit against the horizon, before the slope of the cliff obscured it. His mother rushed him down the hilly path, grass and small stones brushing underfoot.

"But I want to see my father," Henry protested. His hat – a pirate's hat, his mother had always teased – bobbed up and down on his head; a ring of sweat was forming along his brow. "Why can't I see him?"

His mother stopped at the foot of the hill that led up to the cliff; only a few feet away lay the small house that was all Henry knew.

"One day, Henry," his mother said. Her hands gripped his shoulders gently. "Remember what I told you, the stories of the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_?"

"Ten years at sea, one day on land," Henry repeated for her. His blue eyes gazed up at her. "But you've waited for him, just like you said. If you waited, the curse would be broken, wouldn't it?"

His mother smiled, but there was a tightness to it that bothered him. "We still have to see, Henry. There might be…" She stopped, eyes going distant. Henry waited, swinging his arms by his side impatiently. Shaking herself, his mother directed her gaze back at him. "Just one day, Henry. One day, and then you can have your father." She placed a hand on his back, guiding him past the front door into their home. "Stay in your bedroom, please? Let me have our one day… and in the morning, you can see your father."

Henry nodded glumly, tugging off his hat as he ascended the staircase. Through the railing, he saw his mother turn her attention away, her body a taut line against the sunlight filtering through windows. Waiting. In the next moment, she was out, closing the door behind her.

The hours passed slowly. Through his window, the yellow glow of the sky turned to a dim blue, then into the darkness of night, but though he waited at his window, he caught no glimpse of his mother or father. So Henry played with his toys: a set of Royal Navy men and a more battered set of the same that he had labeled 'pirates' in his head, wobbling them through the adventures of Captain Will Turner and Pirate King Elizabeth Swann. Only once, late at night, did he hear the front door open, then slam shut. It was enough to interrupt his pirate adventures, making him sit up and crane his ears for any sound. He was sorely tempted to leave his room and look at them, at his mother and father reunited at last, but his mother's admonition remained. So he settled for listening, his pirates lying forgotten on his bed. He wanted to at least hear his father's voice, after having spent so long imagining what the man looked.

But there were no voices – only footsteps up the stairs, once coming right outside his room, then the closing of his mother's bedroom door.

Henry sighed and returned to his toys. Setting up two ships in his bed, he arranged the bedcovers into a round nest that resembled the swirling waters of a maelstrom.

"She's taking us down with her!" One ship bobbed along the edges while the other circled deeper towards its center. A toy soldier balancing on the deck fell into the blankets. "Man overboard! It's the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_! He's gone! Davy Jones is dead!" Several of the little soldiers cheered, hopping up and down. The outer ship drifted back into the calmer waters while the other tipped over and was buried under blankets. "We've won! The pirates have defeated the East India Trading Company! But where's the _Dutchman_?" A particularly worn piece hopped towards the downed ship as it shook off the heavy blankets, and Henry spoke in a low voice: "'It is back. I am captain of the _Dutchman_ – I, Captain William Turner.'" Pitching his voice higher, he set on the other ship another figure. "'And I, Elizabeth Turner, am Pirate King.'" The other 'pirate' figures did a celebratory dance as the two ships sailed off together, side-by-side.

He wished his father was here to tell him about it.

His mother had taught him almost everything he knew. She had taught him reading and writing and arithmetic, had taken him out to see the stars and pointed out the birds and the creatures of the sky and land and sea, and how to navigate the island they lived on. She had shown him swordfighting and how to sail a ship, though he hadn't ever been on one – not a big one, at least, though the fishermen would take him out on their small boats now and then. She had given him the toys and whispered to him that, yes, the men of the Royal Navy were good, brave men, men she had known (with a strange sad look to her eyes then) – but so were the pirates they sometimes fought again. Most of all she had told him all about her adventures on the Caribbean, tracing out maps and whispering of strange beings and half-forgotten myths – first the curse of the Aztec gold, then seeking out the heart of Davy Jones, and the fight against the evil East India Trading Company, and even a goddess bound to human form. But there were gaps, sometimes.

"Tell me about how my father stole the _Interceptor_ from the Royal Navy."

His mother had laughed. "Oh, I don't know the full story. Your father did that, when I was on the _Black Pearl._ "

Or, "How did my father escape from the Pelegostos tribe?"

"That was quite an adventure… but one he'll have to tell you."

Always, her best stories were about pirates. Everyone in the village thought pirates were evil men, but she had smiled when they were alone and told him about his father – "Will Turner," she said, the name singing along her tongue, "a pirate, and a good man."

"Did you name me after him?" he had asked her one time. He had an unusually long name: William Weatherby Henry Turner III, though most had called him Henry.

"Of course I did." She tapped his nose. "William, for your father, and _his_ father. Weatherby, for _my_ father. And Henry all for yourself." He had giggled – he had been very young then – and she had laughed and pulled him onto her lap, but still he had seen the flash of sadness, felt the slight change of emotion in that moment when she mentioned his father's name.

He loved his mother, and she loved him, but she always felt distant, a part of her that kept itself unreachable. It always seemed clearest when she would stand on the cliff, looking out at the sea, eyes focused on the horizon. It felt like she was waiting. And no matter how he would swing her arm, and beg for more tales, or tell her about what the fishermen were doing, or how the village boys had seen an octopus along the water's edges, it would remain, even if she was looking at him and smiling and saying all the right things. He always knew that there was a part was not there with him.

But now his father was back, and his mother would stop looking like that, and he could hear the full stories of all their adventures together.

When he awoke, dawn was lightening the sky and his ships were askew on his bed. Toy soldiers were scattered along his sheets; one in particular was stuck under his pillow, making a hard lump against his head. He brushed them aside and ran to the window, wondering if he might see his mother and father out there. But the sunlight showed only the glimmer of dew on the grass and the slope down to the village, empty of people save for the fishermen striking out for their morning catch.

Except… he squinted as he ran to the other window, which looked out to the shores. Mainly it was the fishermen's boats pitching among the currents, but along another cliff to south, almost hidden, he could see a ship, vast and majestic and floating on the waves.

Henry grinned. The _Dutchman_ – with his father.

But he had promised his mother he would stay in his room. _One day._ So he stayed. Sometimes he heard footsteps, lightly stepping down the stairs, accompanied by voices muffled against his closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood, but could not discern anything being said, or even what his father's voice was like, other than that it sounded slightly deeper than his mother's. Then footsteps back up the stairs, and the closing of the door.

Eventually he had to venture out – he was hungry, and thought his mother might have left food downstairs. Guilt wormed in him, but he didn't think his mother would want him to starve, and he was sure the two of them were in their room. So he stole out, half-hoping the door to their bedroom would be open and they might see him. But luck was not on his side – or perhaps it was – because their door was closed.

Downstairs, the dining table was set for two meals, just like always. But now, the second plate was half-eaten, a roll and butter and milk left out. Henry could not help himself; he went over, sitting in that spot. It still felt a bit warm, and he imagined his father sitting there, wishing he had remained downstairs to see him. He even sniffed a bit at the roll, wondering if he could detect a smell. But there was nothing.

At his mother's usual place, the plate was empty save for some crumbs, and so Henry grabbed the roll, spread butter over it quickly, then dashed back up with the milk, trying to make his steps as quiet as possible. For a second before entering the room, he wondered what would happen if he burst into his mother's bedroom, announced his name. But his mother's command was too deeply impressed on him for him to do more than consider the thought.

The morning and afternoon wore on. Henry went down around dinner time to pick at the meals, and even dared to go outdoors for a few moments to get some fresh air, tossing around his hat. The sun had reached its midpoint and was slowly beginning to dip towards the horizon when he returned to his room, to have another adventure between Pirate King Elizabeth Turner, Captain Will Turner, and their respective ships. He was just beginning to get hungry and to wonder about supper when he heard a door bang open in the distance. Henry sat up in bed, straining to listen.

There were voices, louder than he had heard all day, his mother's tones recognizable above all. Henry knew he had to stay in his room, but he had never heard his mother sound this way, voice loud enough to reach through his bedroom door. Leaping out of bed, he dashed across his room and pulled open the door.

The setting sun had cast a golden light through the windows and open door, turning the furnishings into dark profiles of themselves. As he crept towards the railing, he could hear his mother, and for the first time, she sounded like she was crying.

"-said if I remained faithful, you would be free. That's what she said!"

"I know."

"Then _why?_ Why must you go, _why_ -"

Henry drew closer, pressing his face against the railing. Against the open door, he could see two figures. His mother's shape, in a thin undergown, was immediately recognizable; he could see the shape of her arms pressed against the other figure…

His father.

"I have to." His father's voice, sounding like it was emerging from between clenched teeth. The two figures drew closer, becoming almost one dark shape. "I can't stay here. I _know_ I can't stay here, I have to _return-_ "

A small, broken sound; it took a moment for Henry to realize it was his mother. "Eternity, then? Ten years until you'll be back again, and one day…"

The taller shape seemed to wrap itself around the smaller.

"I can bear it," Henry's mother murmured.

"I know you will." The figures seemed to pull even closer. "You're strong, Elizabeth. You'll bear it, even when I won't return."

Henry's stomach fell.

" _No._ " His mother's words were an echo of his thoughts. "No, don't say that. Will, I'll wait-"

" _Don't_ ," the man commanded. "Don't wait. Not for me. Live your life. I won't keep coming back, keep opening up this wound, watching you go on while I stay as... this. Not this – pain. I couldn't bear it."

His mother was desperate now. "But I will. I'll always wait. Will – there _must_ be a way, something to break this curse…"

"There's only one way that I know of," his father said, voice just as low. "You know what it is."

The shadow of his mother shook her head. "No. There must be another. I'll find it." The other figure began to move, and she grasped at him. "Will!"

"I must go." There was something hard, implacable, about those words. But then the man, Henry's father, turned to rest his head against Elizabeth. He heard a whisper pass between them, too quiet to make out. Then, just like that, the shadow retreated, closing the door behind him.

Henry's mother collapsed.

* * *

That couldn't be it, Henry thought, panic beginning to rise in him. It couldn't, his mother had _promised_ him that his father would return – and they hadn't even met. His own father!

He leaped back from the railing and back to his room, not caring if his mother heard him. Slamming the door shut, he ran to the window. The sun was continuing to fall, sending the long shadows of the cliff and house stretching over the grass. Below him, Henry could just see a tall figure striding down the path, disappearing behind the slope, the sun shading him into a dark profile so that Henry could not discern any of his features.

He couldn't be leaving!

Grabbing his hat, Henry pushed open the window and hauled himself onto the sill, swinging his legs over the expanse below. The wind nearly whipped his hat off, but he clung onto it and rolled onto his stomach and slid out, legs dangling and kicking until he found the wall edge. There was a trellis of vines and ivy crawling up the wall to his window, and he carefully hooked his feet into one of the openings before pushing himself off the sill until only his fingers were grasping onto the window edge. Stretching out his other leg, he found a lower foothold, then another. As fast as possible he scrambled down, glancing behind him to check on the sun. Its edge was already below the horizon; as soon as it fell, his father would be gone.

He leaped the last few feet; the drop was higher than expected and it knocked the wind from him, but he could not stop. A quarter of the sun was gone; he had to hurry.

Down the slope he went, taking the same path as his father. His ship had to be moored in the same place, but he could not swim there – it'd take too long. As he reached the edge of the village, he turned, taking the path to the docks. His feet slid along the wet wood as he searched the ocean. Most of the boats were devoid of people, their fishing done for the day, but he could see one man in the middle of tying up his boat.

"Mr. Petcher!" Henry ran down to the end, skidding at the end.

"Whoa, Master Turner!" The old man, face wrinkled and tanned from years under the sun, reached out and grabbed Henry before he could go sliding into the water. "What be your hurry? Almost nightfall – your mother-"

"That ship!" Henry interrupted, not caring if he was rude. He gestured wildly at what he knew was the _Dutchman_ , moored behind the cliff. "Take me to that ship!" There was a boat floating along the waters towards it – his father, making his return.

The grizzled old fisherman lifted a hand, narrowing his eyes. "Aye, I saw that ship. Ye have no business being on that, young Master Turner."

"Yes I do!" Henry leaped off the dock and into the boat. He fell, banging a knee painfully against the slabs as the old man shouted in surprise. "I need to go there! Please, take me there!"

"My fishing be all done for the day, lad, and your mother-"

"But I have to go there!" Henry grabbed the man's sleeve, damp from sea spray. "Mr. Petcher, my _father_ is on that ship!"

Mr. Petcher seemed to grow pale even under the golden light of the sunset; he reached out and tried to pull Henry out. "Master Turner, that be a _pirate_ ship. It cannot be your father-"

"It is!" He tore himself loose from the old man's hand. In his desperation, the boat rocked under his feet. "Please, just row me out, we don't have much time! We don't have to go too near it, I just want to see!" The sun was almost halfway down, and he could no longer see the small boat.

"This be a bad a idea," Mr. Petcher muttered, but he undid the knots and laid out the oars. "A very bad idea, Master Turner, you mark me. Best hold on, boy, but I don't think we're going to make it."

Henry could only wait, staring at the ship in the distance. He could see the sails being unfurled, ropes swinging in the wind. Tiny moving specks that had to be men ran up and down the decks, waves buffeting the hull. Nearer they drew, along the edge of the cliff near where it was docked, and they came under its shadow, the cooler wind blowing along his hair. The sun continued to fall, and the ship had not launched yet. Henry was starting to make out the individual cannon ports, the bowsprit that resembled the mouth of some great sea creature.

A shout broke the air, and Henry ducked instinctively, not that it would have helped. But no – it was the ship, beginning to move, and they were still many feet from it.

"Row faster!" Henry yelled, clambering onto the edge of the boat closest to it.

"We'll not be catching up to it if it goes!" Mr. Petcher exclaimed, but he tried to do as ordered. The waves rocked the tiny boat up and down, but Henry could see the ship bow turning slowly, its bowsprit coming to aim at them like some giant sword. The sun continued to sink and rowing in the shadow of the cliff, they could not be seen by anyone on the ship.

Mr. Petcher said, "It's going, boy! We won't catch up!" but Henry had already made his decision.

He stood up on the edge of the boat, struggling to balance, then threw himself into the water. He heard Mr. Petcher's shout of surprise before his head sank under the water.

Luckily, his mother had also taught him to swim, and swim well. He kicked out in the dark water and emerged, taking a gasp of air. The choppy waters swept away his hat before he could remember to grab ahold of it, and soon it was bobbing out of reach, but he couldn't stop to retrieve it – the ship was beginning to swing away into the currents. Taking another breath, Henry threw himself forward, swinging his arms just as his mother had taught him. The water was salty in his mouth and the wind cold as it blew against his wet face. He wondered what happened to Mr. Petcher; he could not hear any of the old man's shouts over the waves slapping into his face. He hoped he had rescued his hat.

The ship was still circling around to face the right direction and avoid the cliff face, and that gave him a little extra time. By then he was close enough to see the individual planks of the hull, but his arms and legs were aching and it seemed no matter how much he gasped, there wasn't enough air. And he still had to get near enough to get on the ship, and he could not see any ropes…

The bowsprit! Taking another giant breath, he launched himself forward, but the waters were churning where the ship was cutting through the waves, and if he wasn't careful, he'd be swept back and miss his chance. Struggling along the edges, he pumped his limbs – faster, _faster_ –

With his left hand, he grasped onto the wood, but slipped off. Again he tried to – the bowsprit beginning to move past him – but he was too small. Once more; he couldn't miss his chance. The waves pushed against him. He paddled for a second longer, gathering energy, then leaped up, letting the water push him up like a cork.

There! He grabbed the edge of the bowsprit firmly and tugged himself up with his other hand. Up into the teeth-like ridges, out of the water, where he sat, shivering as the sun continued to fall – now over three-quarters of the way past the horizon. The island was fast fading behind him, and he could not see Mr. Petcher's boat anymore. Another breath - then a jump up, careful not to fall, onto what looks like the upper "jaw" – and finally over it and the railing. With a sigh, he fell on solid wood. His breaths were quivering in his chest, his arms and legs weak from their swim, and for a moment he merely rested against the walls of the cabin, gulping in air.

He was on the ship. Henry took a look around. He could hear rough voices, commands being barked out and coarse swears breaking the air. But he had no idea where his father was, or what he looked like, and for the first time Mr. Petcher's warning – _"That be a pirate ship!"_ – and all the terrifying stories the villagers used to tell of pirates pillaging the shores, came back to him. What if they found him? What if they didn't let him stay and didn't tell his father? His mother had been marooned on an island once…

He was dripping with cold and seawater, but he sucked in a breath and made his way around the bow, keeping low. There had to be a place to hide, maybe somewhere below deck… and then he would see if he could find his father.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Bootstrap Bill saw Will's figure walking down the beach, he knew. He had seen the other crew members returning, had felt the same tugging compulsion even though he had remained with the ship. It had been a weak thing, and he might not have recognized it for it was, save for the fact that he felt it before: when he had cut out his son's heart to place in the chest. Then, it had felt like a madness akin to and far stronger than when he had been locked in the brig – a ceaseless urge robbing him of all free will and thought except for the certainty that _the_ Dutchman _needed a captain._ But he had not truly considered the thought until his son had returned, exactly at sunset, and now he felt his heart sink. The curse had not been broken.

Will came aboard the ship with his jaw set and eyes hard, biting out orders to father and other crew members alike with harsh intensity. Any words of comfort Botostrap Bill might have offered died; his son clearly did not want them, nor would it be proper right now, in front of the crew. As the sun fell, Bootstrap ordered the ship and crew to sink down into the depths.

He thought he saw a green flash, just before they crashed through the bottom – or surface – of the other side.

As he shook water from his eyes and gave out orders to the rest of the crew – to keep a watch on the waters, to swab the deck, to retie the guns which had come loose during their dive down – he saw Will retreat into his cabin without another word to him. The rest of the crew was busy at their duties; having done this for ten years, each knew his job, and where there were absences (for there had been more than a few who had felt their debt repaid after ten years), the remaining men were picking up the slack. He left the wheel to the helmsman and headed for the captain's quarters as well.

Even after a decade, he was still struck by the differences in the ship with his son as the captain, and the captain's quarters were no different. Bootstrap had only entered the cabin once or twice during Davy Jones's time, but he well remembered how it looked: the dark, wet smell of it, the tube coral growing out of the walls to make the room look like a long, narrow hallway, and the massive organ at the end forcing his gaze to it, blaring its mournful music.

When Will had become captain, the coral had retreated and the organ had been ripped from the wall and hauled overboard. With the windows uncovered, the captain's cabin was not only more spacious but well-lit, sunlight streaming in. One long shaft fell on the sparring dummy Will had set up to maintain his swordsmanship – a way to pass time, presumably, since as far as Bootstrap knew, there was none alive who could match his son in sparring, and even if there were, there was no danger of him dying. Another illuminated a nearby table, where navigational charts and tools were held – another diversion of his son's, he assumed, as charts were not needed in the land of the dead. A second table for meals was in one corner, and two long chairs with embroidered pillows near them. At the end where the organ would be was a large bed, the sheets still made.

It was at the navigational table that Will was crouched over, poring over the maps, an open book on his right, and so absorbed was he that he did not glance up as his father approached.

"Will." He was tempted to lay a comforting hand on his son's shoulder, but the angry set of Will's jaw dissuaded him. "The curse remains."

"Tia Dalma lied," Will said, voice harsh. He slammed shut the book and picked up the compass. "I thought – we both thought – it might end. Do you know what this means?"

He knew, and he could not say for the dark knot of guilt in his chest.

"An eternity as the captain of the _Dutchman_ ," Will said for him. "An eternity at sea, ferrying souls to the afterlife."

He had to ask. "She was faithful?"

Will rounded on him. "Of course Elizabeth was faithful. She was waiting for me, exactly where I had left her. I thought…" The hand holding the compass was shaking. "But I had to go. I could feel it." He threw the tool aside and braced his hands against the table.

"I know," said Bootstrap; it was all he could say.

Will's fists were clenched tight enough to draw his skin white against his bones. "Another ten years before I can see her again. And what then? To watch her age, while I stay like… this?" He waved a hand down himself, indicating with one sweep his curse: to be eternally youthful, watching loved ones grow old and die. "I'm not going back."

Bootstrap drew up beside his son, shock making him forget himself. "You won't return to her?"

Will shook his head. "She has to forget me. There is too much… pain, to see her only once a decade, knowing I cannot stay. And when she's gone, what's left? Nothing to return to." His fingers scratched against the wood surface. "Nobody to see. Do you know what that's like?" The last words were rasped out.

"I do." He gazed straight at his son. "It's misery. To know that you have loved ones who will go on without you, and you are doomed to everlasting servitude." At least the _Dutchman_ under Davy Jones had offered a way out – becoming a part of the ship offered a mindlessness that would erase all those feelings, those regrets.

Will dropped his gaze. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

Bootstrap shook his head. "It was not said for an apology." He forced his own gaze away. "If there is any blame to be placed, I know on whose shoulders it should lie, and it is not yours."

"This is not your fault," Will blazed, all fierce protectiveness, and Bootstrap almost laughed at the ludicrousness of it all – the son attempting to shield the father from blame. "I made a promise, and I kept it. I chose this."

"As I chose a life of piracy, over…" He left the rest unsaid: _over you_. And fate might have been far kinder to his son had he chosen differently. He pushed away the thoughts; he had spent too long mulling it over and over in his own mind; he would not let it occupy his son. "Is there any way to break the curse?" he asked instead, the only help he could think of offering, and because Will looked on the verge of arguing with him, and he had no wish to revisit the cycle of apologies and accusations and forgiveness that only left the both of them more miserable, filled with regrets.

"I've been looking." Will pushed over the small, leather-bound book, its cover worn down so that its title could not be read. "There's nothing, only myths and tales. The only thing that I know works is-"

Bootstrap finished for him. "Another captain." And that would mean stabbing the heart of the current captain, and that was something he could not bear.

"It might have been better to die," Will said.

Bootstrap moved up swiftly beside him. " _Never_ say that."

"It would have been quick."

"Will-" This time he did lay a hand on his son's arm, but Will pushed it off. His eyes were blazing as he met his father's.

"You should go," Will said. "You're not bound to this ship, you never have been."

Bootstrap Bill finally managed a small smile. Will had made that offer upon taking over as the captain, and again a few years after they began ferrying souls. It reminded Bootstrap of why the changes in the captain's quarters remained such a surprise, even after ten years.

Despite Will's offer, Bootstrap had decided to take the officer's quarters below the captain's. With his own son as the captain, he had found himself going from a lowly, enslaved crew member to first mate, and he was entitled to new quarters. Will had remained focused on his duties, taking little rest during the nights they ferried souls and often remaining on deck during the day when they journeyed back. For those first few years, at least in front of the crew, they had remained captain and first mate, even if it was openly known amongst the crew they were father and son.

It was a dangerous time, those first few years – too short for him to have experienced all the dangers of the land of the dead, yet long enough that he had grown incautious.

It had been night. A sudden swell had hit the hull, rocking the ship to one side. It was unexpected because the waters there were utterly calm, sometimes without even a wave to mar its serene surface. Many times he had gazed at the ocean and both marveled and been unnerved at the smoothness; it had resembled more the surface of a bowl of water sitting untouched on a table than the relentless waters he had sailed. And it had happened as the souls of those lost at sea had been hovering near the hull, white and gauze-like, beneath them.

The swell sent the entire ship creaking, and he could remember hearing a snap; later he thought it was a rope breaking, perhaps one tied carelessly to a cannon by one of the seamen. He had heard it, and the rusty creak of wheels and a rumbling rolling sound, and had turned to see a dark, massive shape breaking free and hurtling at him. Bootstrap had dodged it, but it had smashed through the railing and – with the ship tipped briefly to one side – knocked against his leg and sent him overboard.

 _You must not leave the ship,_ Will had said once to crew unfamiliar with the seas at World's End, face serious and eyes distant with memory. But that night, Bootstrap had; had fallen into the waters where the souls waited, and the last thing he could really remember was the black water coming up, the haunted forms reaching for him, and Will, in a moment of forgetfulness, shouting, "Father!"

It was luck that had saved him – that and a quick-thinking crewman with an attached line who had dived in and hauled him out before he could sink too far below the sea. But the crewman whispered later that the souls below had attempted to take his as well, and that might well be true. He had sunk into a state of unconsciousness for over a week, a week of which he had no memory of. The sailors had repaired the railings and checked all their knots twice and trod carefully around the captain. According to some of the men later, Captain Turner had been almost as severe and unrelenting with them as Davy Jones; that he had tracked down the men who had tied the cannons and threatened to hurl all of them overboard himself.

None of that had penetrated his unconscious state. What Bootstrap Bill _did_ remember was waking up in the captain's quarters. It had been day, the sun coming in through the windows much like they did now, and Will had been standing at the table, just as before.

"Will," he had rasped, and his son had come rushing over.

"Father," he had said. And just as now his face was haggard and drawn, and Bootstrap was reminded of a time, long ago, when his son had been a boy and had been recovering from a serious fever, and it was himself hovering over the child in a rare moment of attention for his child. "You're awake."

His entire body had felt as it had when he had been thrown overboard by Barbossa, heavy and unable to move. "What happened?" he had asked.

Will had explained everything – how he had fallen, had been rescued, how they had tried to revive him to no avail. How he had remained unconscious for so long Will had him moved to his own quarters, and had watched him when not attending to his own duties.

"I thought I had lost you," his son had said, the admission looking like it was ripped from him, from his fierce independence and proud self-sufficiency.

"Would've been a waste of all the work you put in to save me," Bootstrap had said, trying to sit up. That stubborn pride of his son's seemed to melt at that; only a few years in, Will had still maintained some of that lightness and steadiness of the young man first Bootstrap encountered on the _Dutchman_. "And I believe I still owe you a debt."

And now, just as then, Will offered up a way out.

"You don't have to stay here," said Will, his words breaking through the stream of memories. "You've more than repaid any debt you owed me."

"It's not my debt that keeps me here, Will," Bootstrap answered.

He was almost amused at how familiar the determined set of Will's face looked to him – like his son was planning to have him dragged off the ship against his will if he did not do as asked.

"My wife-" The words broke off, as did any amusement Bootstrap was feeling. For a moment, Will looked almost like the little boy he had left, so long ago. "Elizabeth… she'll be alone now. She might need… someone around."

"Wouldn't I only remind her of what she has lost?" Bootstrap pointed out.

Will looked stricken. "Perhaps. But it would be a comfort to… know…"

 _That she wasn't alone_ , Bootstrap could guess. That some part of himself was with her, if not himself. "From what I know of your wife, she would not let you go so easily." He hesitated a moment before speaking again. "And I doubt she would welcome me."

Will's eyes were suddenly full of compassion. "She spoke to you before, she knows what happened in the brig. She will not blame you for James Norrington's death."

But it would not relieve the blame he placed on himself, and he could not tell Will that he feared that looking into her face would bring back the wretched memories, her screaming. "It's too late now, Will. We're already in the land of the dead. We can't be going back."

"We can go back at sunrise, make the journey. The souls-"

" _Will._ " He raised a hand. "You need me on here."

For a second he thought Will would protest that. He certainly opened his mouth, probably to deny it angrily. But then he stopped and slowly closed it, contemplating his maps.

At last, he murmured, "I suppose I do."

Bootstrap put a hand to his son's shoulder, and was gratified when Will did not shake it off. "I should be back to my duties." And Will would be too, judging by where the sun was.

"Right." Will hesitated a moment. "Thank you… Father."

Bootstrap nodded, but he could see the reserves of anger and bitterness still, in his son's eyes. Before leaving Will to his thoughts, he squeezed his son's shoulder before dropping his hand. There was little else he could do.

And he had lied. It was not his debt that compelled him to stay, but a debt there was, and it had grown ever higher this day. For leaving his son, for taking Jones's offer of servitude, for pushing his son into a relentless battle to free him even against all his dissuading and that had ended with this eternal binding to the ship – that was his debt. If his son could not have his wife, he would at least have his father, for as long as Bootstrap could offer. It was all he _could_ offer.

* * *

As night fell, the crew began preparing for their journey. While daylight hours were spent repairing sails, making ropes, checking supplies, and all the other numerous duties to maintain the ship as it floated in settled waters, night required the ship to sail ahead, leading the souls of those who perished at sea to the afterlife, before returning once more when the sun rose. None of them had seen what lay beyond the Farthest Gate – as crewmen of the _Dutchman_ , they hovered in a limbo between living and dead, not moving on yet not part of the living either.

Will emerged from his quarters come sundown, his body once again filled with taut tension. His son often spoke to the souls he ferried. He was the only one; most of the other crew members treated the souls with superstitious fear, avoiding any contact with them. But Will listened to the stories of the dead, commiserated with them, mourned for them. Sometimes Bootstrap thought this took as much of a toll on him as the years away from his wife – seeing the way his mouth was drawn thin at hearing the ways people died, the accidental explosions, the deliberate attacks, the drowning or the fall or the blow that could have been avoided. For now, though, Will contented himself with moving up and down the decks, sometimes speaking with a crew member, other times taking up a post at the bow. They waited.

And waited.

And continued waiting.

And waited longer.

But night was fully upon them and not a soul had been seen floating in the waters, and the rigid line had reappeared in Will's shoulders as he stared into the depths.

"Something's wrong," Will murmured. He was up near his father at the helm, staring at the sea. "What happened to them? Are we in the right place?"

Bootstrap released the wheel; it was not as if they had anywhere to go, anyone to ferry. "Perhaps the ocean was kind today," he suggested. "Perhaps nobody has died."

It sounded false as soon as he said it – the ocean had always claimed lives, there had not been a night in their ten years when there wasn't a soul to be ferried, and his son knew it as well as he did. But Will said, "Maybe," and let it drop, still staring out at sea. The crew murmured among themselves and continued with their tasks, but Bootstrap caught many furtive looks out towards the ocean – and sometimes to them.

It had to be well past midnight before Bootstrap spoke again. "There's nothing here, Captain. No souls to be cared for." Will did not speak. "The crew and I can handle this. We'll alert you if we see anything. You should go back. Get some rest."

A little smile quirked Will's mouth, the first Bootstrap Bill had seen since his son had returned from shore. "I don't believe the first mate is supposed to give orders to the captain."

"The first mate will do exactly that if it's what's good for the captain," Bootstrap retorted without fire.

Will pushed himself off the railing, still smiling. "Keep at the wheel then, Mr. Turner."

"Aye, Captain Turner."

It was strange, Bootstrap reflected as Will left, to feel this closeness to his son. He doubted his skills as a father had had any effect on that, and it certainly had nothing to do with any closeness he had with Will as a child. It was Will's mother who had done the parenting, even before Bootstrap abandoned his family for pirating. She had raised him, watched over his welfare, doled out rewards and meted punishments. He'd had little to do with Will and had wanted even less; his son had been more of a distraction and a burden, something tying him to land. But like a plant drawn inexplicably to light, Will had followed his father anyway, even as a child, getting underfoot, as eager as a puppy for any scrap of attention, and often just as clumsy in his attempts to get it.

Will had been only a young boy when Bootstrap had left. There had been some residue of guilt, quickly alleviated – his wife had been the better parent by far, and he had told himself it was better she be left to raise him alone. In his years of pirating, before Barbossa's mutiny, he had barely thought of his son, and it had been a moment of blind inspiration that had made him send the piece of Aztec gold to him – the act which condemned him to the bottom of the sea and then, to escape it, to servitude aboard the _Dutchman_.

The years had begun to fade then as life became an endless toil as one of Davy Jones's monstrous crew, and he had little time to think about his wife and son, except that perhaps one was dead (his wife had always been rather frail) and one was grown and had forgotten him. His message to Jack had recalled Will to him for a brief moment that was as quickly and easily forgotten. But just as the events of his life had started to blur into an indistinguishable fog, this boy, this whelp, had crossed his path, and in the flash of lightning he had recognized his own features in him, a softer, younger copy of his own, and had remembered what Jack had told him. And then he had known what it was to be a father, where every breath of the child was like his own and every wound like one against his own flesh.

And after, their positions had switched, and it was the father scrambling for any tiny bit of information the son could provide. _A blacksmith_ , Will had said was his trade. Not a pirate, as Jack Sparrow had claimed. _Port Royal_ , where he made his living. _Elizabeth_ , the name of his fiancée, the only time Bootstrap had seen a trace of a smile. He had been about to be married. His son had been like a wary young animal, half wanting to know the father he had been searching for, the other half uneasy at their growing bond, trying to preserve his shell of disinterest. It was partially for that reason that Bootstrap had sent Will on his way with the plea to forget him. Why should the son bother with the father who had not cared for or even thought of him since childhood?

And yet… during their few days together, though there had been a terrible heartache at the thought of his son, forced to serve on the _Dutchman_ , there was also a shred of joy, hidden and shameful. Like all crewmembers, Bootstrap Bill had begun losing his humanity, too tired and beaten down to rid his body of the barnacles and sea life that grew upon him. But with Will on the ship, there was something to cling on, even if it was only the desire to make sure his son did not become part of the ship as well.

Well, he had gotten his wish, if not in the way he or his son desired. But it was best not to dwell on what could have been done or should be changed; there lay a path to madness.

There really was nothing appearing on the sea, he thought, shaking himself free of memories. He left the wheel and walked down to the lower deck. Several men were swabbing the deck, still shiny from its dip beneath the waves. The ship was emptier that it ever had been under Jones's captaincy, not just from recent absences, but from those freed when Will had taken over. With a new captain had come a resurgence of memories for many crew members, blunted emotions becoming vivid. Many had felt only remorse for their deeds and had offered to stay as a way to atone; others, who had been more slaves than crew, had happily returned to land.

Still, after a decade, even some of Davy Jones's most trusted officers had felt that they had done enough to redeem themselves. Bootstrap wondered what might happen if they continued to lose sailors. Recruit more? The thought was entertaining as he imagined sailing to ports calling for men to ferry souls. Or could the _Dutchman_ make it with only a small crew?

But that was a decision for another day. Right now, he had the maintenance of the ship and the welfare of the current crew to deal with. As he passed by, one or two glanced up and muttered a respectful "Mr. Turner". The third kept his head down, grumbling something under his breath.

Bootstrap paused near the man. "What's that you're muttering about, sailor?"

The man jerked his head up. "Apologies, Mr. Turner. Just these damned barnacles. Seems a few started growing on the hull and got into them cannons." He scrubbed at said offending spot, where sure enough, there seemed to be a few hard growths. "Seems like every time I get 'em off, they grow back… least the ones I _can_ get off."

"A few barnacles is normal," Bootstrap said. "Get them off if you can, leave them if you cannot. The ship will still sail regardless."

Having given his verdict on that problem, he made his way below. In the gun deck, a few men slept in the hammocks swung from the ceiling, but most were eating, or talking, or milling up and down the cannons. With their job being to ferry souls, the _Dutchman_ ran on a reverse schedule, with activities at night and rest in the day. Even with no souls, it was difficult to break the habit.

The murmur of the men's voices reached him as he passed by.

"Looks like the captain's stuck here…"

"Same as the rest of us."

Bootstrap paused at the foot of the steps, listening.

"What'd he do during his one day?"

"Some wench." There was a hoarse chuckle from the surrounding men.

"She waitin' for him?"

"Aye. Ten shillings it won't last. Eternity's a long time."

"Twenty he'll end up the likes of our old captain. Best be hopping off soon, lads – don't want to get the tentacles again, do you?"

A louder chortle. Another voice said over the din, "The captain's not gonna shirk his duty over some wench. Least not the way's you think. See, he'll probably get a bit _distracted_ , if you know what I mean. Ten year's long time to go dry. Probably going to be in his cabin, swinging the dol-"

Bootstrap stepped out of the shadows. "Seems a lot of chattering here for men at their duties."

The entire deck-full of crew started as one; a couple who had been awake in their hammocks almost fell out.

"Apologies, Mr. Turner," one man mumbled. "It just was idle talk, is all, on account of no souls out there-"

"So it's neglecting your duties then?" Bootstrap moved forward, glaring at each man in turn. "I might be informing the captain about that. About your talk."

He was almost amused at the way the men's eyes flicked nervously at each other. "That – that won't be necessary," a second crewman stuttered. "Me and the men don't mean no harm – we got our duties to attend to."

"Good." Bootstrap eyed each of them for one more hair-raising moment. "As you were then."

He allowed himself a small smile as he made his way lower. Even after ten years, something of the aura of Davy Jones still hung over the role of captain. Most hadn't guessed that Will was a far kinder captain than Jones, and the few who had weren't ready to test it. And so a surprise inspection and a quick threat was more than enough to keep the crew in line.

The galley and kitchen was far more orderly; none of the men there needing a tongue-lashing. The cook was not at his stove, but Bootstrap passed him by on his way to the orlop deck, muttering something about rats.

"Rats, you say?" Bootstrap said, pausing on the steps down.

The cook scratched his head. "Aye, or some other pest. Something's been gettin' into the supplies. Found a hole in one of the sacks, and a crate's been opened I swear was not open before." He hefted his sack of flour. "But you'd not be interested in that, eh? Best be back to my duties, Mr. Turner."

Bootstrap let him go, frowning. Rats were usually not a problem on the _Dutchman_ – their dive through the ocean depths was more than enough to drown any that had made their way onto the ship. But Will always took care to make their dives as short as possible, so perhaps one or two particularly hardy varieties had survived. He decided to put a couple sailors to investigating the matter. He certainly did not want them to start breeding.

By the time he reached the top deck again, the sky was beginning to turn gray with the promise of the rising sun. The men on duty reported no sign of souls, and he relieved them from their watch. It made him slightly uneasy – there were always those lost at sea. But perhaps, like he had told Will, the ocean had decided to be merciful for this one day.

His bones had begun to ache, which he tried to ignore. Sometimes he wondered if his time as part of the ship had changed him – like he was carrying some tiny, half-alive splinter of it that made him more attuned to the ship's condition. It was small things, hearing a creak and being able to pinpoint exactly where it was, or feeling a soreness and somehow associating it with a problem in the ship as well. Coincidences, he told himself, and the ache was merely the dampness of going below decks; the wood had still been dripping from their submersion, making the cold set into him. But perhaps this was why old Wyvern and others who had melded into the ship had chosen to return to land at the first opportunity – an escape from that which had entrapped them and any strange reminders of it. Because if he was carrying a bit of the ship now, did that mean the ship held a tiny part of him? And of Wyvern, and all the rest?

These were foolish, superstitious thoughts, even for an old sailor like him. Fatigue was wearing him down as well, and though he did not need it, he made his way back to his own quarters, deciding to rest.

* * *

When he emerged onto the ship, some hours had passed and the sun had risen high in the sky. The ship bobbed gently on the calm waters, masts creaking slightly with the movement. Under the bright sun, much of the crew had gone below. He stepped over the shiny deck; the crew had at least swabbed the floors before leaving. About to take the wheel, he found himself stopped by one of the men.

"Apologies, Mr. Turner," the man said – Piper, was his name. "But the captain's asked to see you, in his quarters."

The request was a bit strange – Will could easily come out himself to speak to him – but he did not let that show on his face. "Let him know I'll be there."

Once he had someone manning the wheel, he made his way to the captain's cabin.

"You wanted to see me, Captain Turner?"

Will looked up from where he stood at the table. "Close the door."

There was something odd about his tone, but Bootstrap did as ordered before turning to face his son again. "You wanted to see me, Will?"

A long silence followed. Will was wearing his coat, and Bootstrap wondered why his son did not feel hot; the cabin was usually warmer than the rest of the ship. But his son simply looked at him, stare so intense it felt as if Bootstrap were being examined inside and out.

"Will?" He moved forward, disconcerted by this change, gentling his tone. "What is it?"

A bit of emotion returned to Will's eyes. "You haven't…" He stopped. "Have you noticed any… changes?"

"Changes?" he repeated, puzzled. "In the ship?"

"In you."

He shook his head, growing more confused by the second. "In me? No." He took another step closer. "Will, what is it?"

Will hesitated, eyes darting to his father's face. There was a brief shift in his stance, as if steeling himself, and then he tugged off his coat, revealing his left shoulder.

There were barnacles growing up the sleeve of his arm.

Fear slammed into Bootstrap Bill's gut; instinctively he moved forward, making to swipe off the offending creatures. But Will jerked back, pushing the coat back up.

"They won't come off," said Will, pulling the coat tighter. "I tried. They just… grow back." His eyes raked Bootstrap's form once more. "Nothing has happened to you?"

"I haven't noticed." He quelled the urge to check his own arms for growths or to feel his face for… something. "Why is this happening?"

Will clenched his jaw. "I've been neglecting my duties."

"No." He moved until he was only a foot away from his son. "No, you haven't. I have never seen you neglect it. There weren't any souls to ferry-"

"But that's what this means!" Will said, hand slamming into the table. "Something's gone wrong. There _were_ souls, but I just… didn't see them, or I lost them-"

"You can sense them." It was one of the captain's abilities, to sense the location of lost souls; Davy Jones had twisted it to his advantage to bind them to him.

"I haven't sensed anything!"

"It's not neglect then. You can't ferry souls that aren't there!"

"Then we've done something wrong!" shouted Will. " _I'm_ doing something wrong. They're not coming to us or the men aren't keeping watch or we're in the wrong pl-" He froze, realization breaking over his face. "The wrong place."

"We're in the land of the dead," Bootstrap said, not following his son's line of thought. "We submerged, at sunset, we emerged here."

"Not the wrong place, but…" Will got up, striding to the door with only a glance to make sure his coat was staying on. "Not able to go to the _right_ place. We can't get to where the souls are… or we can't lead them to where they are meant to go. And so they don't come to us, and I cannot sense them."

"But why?" asked Bootstrap, following him out. They had always been able to, with little navigation needed; the souls seemed to find them. And if not, then Will did it himself.

"I'm not sure." Will paused, frowning from the effort of thinking. "Ask the men if they've noticed anything strange. Anything different. Keep a lookout posted at all hours." He twisted his arm where the barnacles were forming. "I won't let this happen again. Especially not to you."

As with all of Will's declarations, there was nothing Bootstrap Bill could say. Nor did Will, with all his righteous anger, his stubborn need to save his father, seem to ask for any acknowledgment. But there was a little warmth in Bootstrap Bill's chest as he gave the orders to the crew and headed below to question the men.

* * *

"The barnacles?" said the crewman, the same who had complained of them last night. "Didn't really notice when they appeared. Sometime last night, methinks."

* * *

"Seaweed is creepin' in on me," muttered the cook, swatting away a long swath of it hanging from the ceiling. "No, didn't see the rats meself. But I saw some of the barrels opened when I know I didn't do it. Boxes movin' too, and they be packed tight."

* * *

"Cook says it's the rats," said Broondjongen, the sailor who had been checking supplies. "But me… I say it's the ghost of Davy Jones."

The idea was so ludicrous Bootstrap could not stop himself from uttering a disbelieving, "What?!"

"It's true." Broondjongen pushed his face closer. Even without the vestigial remnant of another sailor peering out from his clamshell shoulder, which was how he had appeared under Davy Jones's command, he was still a frightening person. "I heard 'im. Scurrying about, shuffling the supplies. You mark my words – Davy Jones's spirit is on this ship. And he's _angry._ "

* * *

"You took my apple!" roared Ogilvey, swinging his tall form around.

"Well, you took me roll!" Penrod shouted, though the way he was cringing his smaller form behind another sailor took the heat from his words.

Ogilvey snatched up the man. "Apples ain't rolls. I hadn't had one in eight years, so you won't be touching 'em. And I know you've been at my biscuits, seeing as how I had only two of 'em last night 'stead of three."

Bootstrap stepped in. "Enough of this, the lot of you!" The two men glared at him, but shut their mouths, Ogilvey subsiding with a grumble. Bootstrap stared him down. Once these two men had been the trusted mates among Davy Jones's crew, but no more. Will was too honorable to seek revenge, but he would not let any of Jones's old mates have positions of power on his ship. "None of us on here need food and drink, so there be no reason for this much fighting. What is the cause of this?"

Penrod burst forward before Ogilvey could speak. "See Mr. Turner, Ogilvey here is claiming I took his apple, but I never touched any of his things."

"That's a lie!" Ogilvey shouted, before a glare forced him to remember himself. Quieting once more, he muttered, "Penrod here is sayin' that I took his roll last night. Never liked that stuff, but he won't listen."

Bootstrap stared at them, thinking. "Did anybody see you take this?" He aimed his stare at the surrounding sailors, who had been watching the fight break out with great interest. At his glance, they dropped their eyes, muttering sheepishly. "Ratlin? You see anything?"

"No, Mr. Turner. Didn't really think watching Ogilvey's rolls was important."

" _Biscuits_ ," grumbled Ogilvey.

"How about you, Hadras?" Bootstrap asked, ignoring him.

"Nothing to be seen, Mr. Turner, sir."

 _But the food was still missing,_ Bootstrap thought. A glimmer of an idea was forming. "I'm going to bring this up with the captain," he announced to the crew at large. "There might be something else afoot here."

* * *

"Captain Turner," Bootstrap Bill said, "there may be a stowaway on board."

Will stared at him. "A stowaway."

"That's what I believe. The men are reporting strange things – supplies being opened, food stolen, noises in the hold. I think someone is on this ship."

Will's eyes narrowed as he thought. "A stowaway wouldn't be bound to the ship. He could not reach where the souls are bound, and so we could not ferry them…"

"…And the souls would not come."

Will nodded. An angry glint flashed across his eyes. "Have the men search the ship, top to bottom. I want this stowaway found before night has set."

"Aye, Captain."

* * *

It had been a frightening two days for Henry.

His mother had told him tales of the _Flying Dutchman_ , how its men had turned to sea creatures when their captain failed in his duties. She had whispered terrible stories of men with eel heads and shark faces or had even become part of the ship itself. She spoke of the monstrous Kraken, of which she had only seen its gigantic tentacles ripping people out the ship. But whenever Henry had whimpered and curled up in her bed at night, awoken from some nightmare of the _Dutchman_ 's crew coming to take him, she had hugged him and told him that with a new captain, the ship had turned back to normal, its crew to humans.

Most reassuring to Henry, however, was knowing that it was his father in charge of the ship. His father would _never_ send the _Dutchman_ against him, or call up the Kraken (which was dead anyway) against him.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

He had intended to run out onto the ship and find the captain, but he hadn't seen anyone who had looked like his father. For that matter, he wasn't even sure what his father looked like, but he had imagined someone strong and handsome who would constantly be at the helm. Instead he had only seen old sailors wandering around the ship, swabbing the deck or muttering to themselves.

And at the sight of them, these people who his mother had said had chased her down and tried to kill her, he lost his nerve. What if they didn't believe him? What if they threw him off the boat? Or took him back to his mother (who was probably very angry with him)?

So he hid himself, sneaking lower and lower down the decks until he found himself in the hold. It was dark and dripping and full of boxes and barrels and sacks, and so he had wormed his way behind a stack of them. He had still shivering from his wet clothing, but the swim had been so tiring that he had immediately curled up on a half-empty sack and was just about to fall asleep –

Until the crash of water awoke him.

If he hadn't been so confused, he might have panicked. As it was, he didn't even resist as the hold was flooded with water and he felt an odd sensation – like a dip, his stomach swooping up to his throat. For a second, he had been floating in water, grasping frantically for the tied down crates –

But then, in the next moment, there had been another crash, as if the ship had been knocked into something. He had felt again the strange falling feeling, though bobbing in the water had made it less noticeable… and then another crash that had sent him flying through the water and smacking against a wall. Yet even as he struggled helplessly amongst the supplies, the water had started to subside, ebbing down so that he could stick his head out and take a gulp of air. It had taken a while for it to fully drop, and he had lain atop boxes, forming a nest from sacks, trying to dry himself off and sleep.

Then he had lain there and waited, though he wasn't sure for what. Some part of him hoped that someone would find him, and that that someone would be his father. But whenever he heard footsteps, he'd flee back to his corner. Sometimes he snuck above to steal some food from the cook or the galley, while other times he had opened up a barrel and eaten a biscuit. Many times, he slept, or lay in the very back, still wondering how to find his father.

If his father was the captain, then he would take the captain's cabin, right? He had a vague idea of where it was. But sneaking down had been so hard, with all the crew milling about, and sneaking back up would be just as difficult. And if his father wasn't there, how would he find him, without being noticed?

How would his father react?

All those thoughts swirled in his head the first day and night, making his stomach clench with fear.

The second day was even more terrifying. There were _people_ down there, many of them, searching the hold.

Henry squeezed himself behind a box, but his mind was frantic – all they had to do was peer over the boxes and they would find him. He searched around himself in a panic, finding only sealed boxes and full sacks and barrels full of salted meat and fish –

Scrambling to his feet, Henry opened the top of the barrel, wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish. But it was only a quarter full, more than enough room to fit him. He climbed atop a low box so that he could slip his feet in, while still gripping the barrel top. His shoes squelched as they slipped in the slimy liquid, making the smell even stronger and soaking through the leather, but he didn't care at the moment – the voices and footsteps were getting closer. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he slid the top over and crouched down, barely breathing.

Shuffling. Grunts. Boxes being moved. He felt a thump against his barrel and went stiff, but it did not tip over.

"Find anything?"

"Nothin'. Ain't seen a damn thing."

"You seen the captain lately?"

"Nah. Sticking to his cabin, in't he?"

"Some o' the men are saying he looks… different. Davy Jones different."

"You think he's shirkin' his duties?"

"Might be…"

The mutterings faded, leaving Henry to poke his head out and wonder what they were talking about.

* * *

Night, Henry decided. Night would be a good time to try and find his father. When all the men were sleeping and it was dark, he could make his way around the ship unseen.

He realized the folly of this the second he tried to get to the upper decks. The gun deck was swarming with men, many peering through the port holes, others pacing back and forth or going up and down the stairs.

"Seen any signs of 'em?" he heard one close to him mumble.

"Not a one. Ocean's clear as anything."

A hiss. "Damn."

"This ship is cursed. Davy Jones be back to curse us all."

"Quiet! You know the first mate don't like that kind of talk…"

"Hey! You hear somethin'?"

Henry fled back down. He spent the rest of the night there.

* * *

The next day it was even worse. He could hear men cursing down in the hold, throwing down empty crates and ripping open sacks. He huddled in his barrel, praying they wouldn't find him.

"Nothin'! Not a damn thing down here!"

"Ship's startin' to get that… wet feeling."

"Aye. Like when Davy Jones was captain."

"You see 'im last night? Our captain?"

"Aye. All covered in them… shells. Been checking meself now. How long d'you think before we start to change too?"

"Dunno. Davy Jones took me on o'er fifty years after he went bad, and it was only a year in that I started seein' changes…"

Their voices faded, and Henry lay undiscovered. A knot of guilt had formed in his stomach.

His mother had told him about Davy Jones's change. How the evil man had stopped ferrying souls and gone bad, turned into a monster. And it sounded like his father was doing the same.

He couldn't be! Not his father!

His mother had also told him that Davy Jones had turned evil because his lover had left him. She had promised to wait but had disappeared. But Henry's mother had waited. Maybe his father was missing his mother. Or maybe he thought she had betrayed him?

His mother would never do that!

Henry leaped to his feet, forgetting he was in a barrel and banging his head against the top. Luckily nobody was left in the hold and didn't hear the cover come rolling off. Rubbing the bruise on his skull, Henry felt his resolve strengthen. He had to tell his father who he was and that his mother would never betray him.

Climbing out of the barrel, he picked his way past boxes and sacks and prepared to make his escape.

* * *

"Has anything been found?" asked Will.

"Nothing, Captain," Bootstrap Bill said. "The men are beginning to think it's some kind of spirit, not a man."

It was growing difficult to look at his son now. The barnacles were spreading, growing exponentially for each night Will did not do his duty. It had climbed up and down his arm and was creeping up his neck and along the side of his cheek and jaw as well.

Will shook his head, as if the ghost of his predecessor was something he had actually considered. "No. If it was a spirit, it wouldn't hinder us. It has to be a living person." He raised a hand as if to rub at the barnacles, then stopped. "We're going to have to go down."

Bootstrap nodded. It was the only solution – flush out the stowaway. He had no idea why the first time had not, but a prolonged dive into the waters would drown anyone not bound to the ship, leaving them to find the body.

"When shall we do it?" he asked.

Will pulled on his coat, though it too was so encrusted with shells that it did little to help his appearance. "Tonight, an hour after sundown." So that they would not accidentally burst through into the world of the living. "I'll not neglect my duties any longer."

* * *

It had taken hours to leave. First was creeping through the hold, which felt soggier than Henry had ever remembered, sacks squishing and seaweed dangling to creep into his face. Then it was making his way up each deck – avoiding people in the stairway, making sure he was not seen by men walking nearby, and trying to be quiet yet fast. He had to wait for long stretches of time, but it seemed to become easier after a while, as each deck grew progressively emptier. As day stretched into evening, he began seeing men heading to the top deck. He had to wait again for those below him to join them, hiding behind one of the pillars in the landing, but then all he had to do was follow, lingering a few feet behind.

When he finally poked his head out, he took a deep breath. He hadn't breathed fresh air in several days, and the smell of the ocean, the feel of wind whipping through his hair, was wonderful. For a brief moment, he wondered what had happened to his hat and if Mr. Petcher was hanging onto it.

Luckily, as it turned out, the men had clustered on the main deck above, so he went unnoticed. It was quite dark, even with the lamps being lit, and the mass of bodies blocked much of his line of sight, but he thought he could see two figures standing on the quarter deck. After a second, Henry climbed out and began scurrying up, trying to catch a better sight of the figures. One of them had to be captain.

He tried to creep closer, even though he was getting uncomfortably close to the other crew members. The two men up near the wheel were talking. Was one of them the first mate? The only first mate he could think of was Barbossa, a man his mother had told him about. She said he had mutinied against the captain of the _Black Pearl_ and had kidnapped her and tried to kill his father. But she had also said that he had turned out to be an "ally", so he wasn't sure what to think. He wondered which of the men was the captain and which the first mate. One of them looked older than the other, who was facing away from him. Maybe he was the captain? Henry tried to remember what he had seen of his father from his window and to match it to one of the men, but it had been so quick and shadowed that it was difficult.

Suddenly the younger man turned, facing the crew. Henry gasped. There was a hardness to this man's eyes, an angry set of the jaw, but mostly he was frightened because, even in the dim light, he could see the livid growths on the man's face, neck, and shoulder, down to the sleeves of his arms – hard, rounded, shell-like objects he had only ever seen on the hulls of ships.

"Men!" shouted the younger man. _The captain_ , Henry thought, _nobody but the captain could talk like that._ He raked his gaze over the man, barnacles and all, aware that he was looking, truly looking, at his father for the first time. "There is a stowaway upon the ship!"

The crew roared – out of anger, Henry thought. The knot of guilt was turning into fear once more, and he inched away. But he did not run; he needed to see more of his father. Despite the growths, he was young, handsome, and Henry finally had a face and a voice to put to the nebulous figure of his dreams, and he could not tear himself away.

The captain continued, "This stowaway is the reason we have seen no souls!" The men shouted, raising their fists. "The reason we have shirked our duties!" Another shout. "The reason for _this_!" And he stepped forward into the light and brandished his arm, revealing more shells encrusting his hand, his other arm, and across his chest. Another exclamation, this one louder and angrier than anything Henry had heard so far.

The fear and guilt burned his throat, and he found himself clutching the rails. _He_ was the stowaway. It had nothing to do with his father or mother, and everything to do with _him_. He didn't know how or why, but for some reason his presence on the ship had done something to his father. A painful lump was forming in his gut. He wanted to burst out right then and tell them, apologize, and then go back to his mother so she could make everything right again, but he could not make himself move.

His father must hate him. He certainly sounded like he did.

Will Turner, however, hadn't finished speaking. "For two days we've searched the ship for this person, without success." The men murmured, perhaps fearing punishment, but the captain only continued, "So now we must drive out this person!" A louder clamor. "We will flush out this person who came aboard!" Louder yells. "We will go where they cannot!" Louder yet. "We go _DOWN!_ "

The burst of acclaim echoed into the skies. Henry saw, as if in a daze, the men pump their fists twice. Then all was chaos – men parting like a wave to move to the edges of the ship, to the ropes, to the mast lines, to the capstan, leaving Henry's view clear so that he could see the captain standing atop the edge of the ship, his first mate near the wheel.

 _Down?_ Henry thought. What did that mean?

Then everything came together.

The rush of water on his first night.

The swooping feeling that had accompanied it.

Davy Jones and his crew of sea creatures.

The dampness of the ship.

His mother telling him about the _Dutchman_ and its surprise attacks.

And just as the realization hit, he felt the ship begin to slide beneath his feet, and the groan of water splitting apart to let it dive through.

"No!" And then Henry was moving in a panic, bursting out of his hiding spot. Men's heads were turning at his scream. He shoved his way through the thicket of bodies, still screaming even though the roar of the ocean was drowning him out:

"No! Stop! Wait-"

He shouted one more word, and then a wave slammed down atop him.


	3. Chapter 3

As his son's most trusted mate, it was up to Bootstrap Bill to make sure all was ready for what might be a prolonged submersion. He had the crew lash down cannons and supplies, furled up the sails, and secure the rigging. Smaller items were stowed away so they wouldn't float into the sea, the ropes were checked for wear and breakage, the powder kept dry, and the men told to find secure hand- and footholds.

As Will was giving his speech, he kept an eye on the men and the ship. It seemed impossible for him to have missed the signs, but there they were. The continual wetness of the deck, no matter when the men had last swabbed them. A smell of decay and dank in the hold. The line of barnacles, even lengths of seaweed, which had begun growing along the hull and wood, impossible to eradicate.

The captain was always affected first by his neglect, but he had little doubt that the men would follow. Already the crew were struck by paranoia, some of them checking themselves for sea life on their flesh and clothes every hour. Bootstrap himself did not look – he did not want to know. And the mutterings had grown ever louder – that Captain Turner was deliberately abandoning his duties, that he was a new Davy Jones unable to cope with only a day on land every ten years, that they had to leave the ship or even… and this was just a whisper… do something about their captain. Get a new one, maybe, without any attachments to land.

So he was glad to see this mutinous undertone being expelled by Will's speech. He saw sailors shouting in fury that turned to righteous vengeance, the crew eager to do what was being asked. Men shifted closer, nodding to each other and themselves –Captain Turner was right, he _did_ have their welfare in mind after all, and he had no more intended this to happen than they did.

"We will go where they cannot!" Will shouted. "We go _DOWN!_ "

Their cries filled the air; it might have been triumphant if they were not all so angry, and then they began moving to assigned posts. There was a scuffle going on somewhere in the back as men tried to find their way to their assigned handholds. Will swung himself up the rigging, looked at his father, and nodded.

" _Down!_ " exclaimed Will.

The ship began to move forward, preparing to make its descent. The shuffling was growing more obvious; he could see men moving, almost in confusion –

"No!"

Bootstrap turned suddenly at the sound. He knew the voices of every man on the ship, but this cry was not one he recognized at all.

"No!"

There seemed to be greater movement down on the deck. Frowning, he moved forward, forgetting to hold to the railing as he descended the steps of the quarter deck. The ship creaked, its bow beginning to ease downward.

"Stop! Wait-"

 _That's a boy_ , Bootstrap realized in consternation. The figure running forward was a _boy_. He whirled around, saw Will looking out and the shock mirrored on his face –

And then the boy shouted a word:

" _Father!_ "

 _God's wounds._ "Bring the ship up!" he shouted. "Bring-"

And then the ship smashed into and _through_ the sea and the boy was knocked aside by the torrent of water.

Bootstrap Bill moved forward even as the water tore at him too and the white foam obscured all sight of men, ship, or boys. He was older, bigger; more importantly, he had experience with this, and despite the waves buffeting at him, he managed to grab onto the edge of the ship railing while still pushing his way blindly down the deck as the water drenched him, as the roar filled his ears.

Then the stream of foam and bubbles cleared, revealing the small form of the boy whirling up like a mote. They had reached the low silence of the ocean; all he could hear was his own breath in his head. There were other dark forms surrounding him, the rest of the crew flapping like sails in the wind, and he swam past them, releasing his hold on the railing so that he could almost float towards the boy, grabbing rigging and line as he went. The press of the waters was becoming less, and he reached out for the child's flailing limbs, hoping he wasn't too late –

He wasn't. As the child wriggled frantically, he managed to take hold of the boy's skinny arm in his grip – now he would not go flying off into the vast ocean. But while Bootstrap did not need to breathe, the boy did, and he could not drag him back down or the child would drown, and he hesitated for one moment –

White foam obscured his vision, and he heard the distant roar of water – looking up, he could see it like a vast, moving blanket above him, except that now it was coming _down_ –

And with another crash, the water slammed him down onto the surface of the ship, knocking him loose from the rigging and almost pushing him over as well. The air was instantly cold against his wet skin and clothes, his body heavy as it left the buoyancy of the waters. Under his grasp he felt the boy stumble as well, and that induced him to steady himself on a nearby rail and try to hold the child up. He spat out salty water and shook droplets free from his hair. The crew was in the same position of trying to pull themselves upright, the ones who were nearest and steadiest turning eyes on them.

"That's it," he heard one whisper. "It's 'im…"

"The stowaway…"

"It's just a whelp-"

"Kill it!" An answering snarl from nearby men.

Bootstrap flung the boy behind him without thinking; distantly he heard the child's feet slide along the drenched deck. "Back, all of you!" he shouted; his hand dropped to his sword. "This is for the captain to deal with!" Said captain was staring at the scene below him; Bootstrap saw him shake the water from his face and move away from the wheel to get a closer look.

A low grumble. "Captain wanted to find the stowaway, and 'ere he is," hissed a big man nearby. "Let's 'ave 'im!"

The boy's arm was writhing in Bootstrap's grip, trying to get away, but he held on tighter. "You going to kill a child, Maccus? Hmm?" He eyed all of them. "Thought you stayed on this ship to be different. Thought you had an aim to redeem yourself on here."

"Oh, shut it and let us-"

"You dare speak that way to your first mate?" he shouted back. He saw with some satisfaction how the men drew back. Even Maccus hesitated. "We let the captain deal with this, so all of you, back to your stations!" When they didn't move: " _Now!_ "

The mumble of voices was unhappy but obedient, slouching off to the main deck. Bootstrap caught Maccus sending the both of them a baleful glare, but paid it little heed. Only when they had cleared a small area around him did he turn towards the boy, now shivering from cold in his grip.

"God's sake, boy!" said Bootstrap. "What were you thinking?"

The boy looked up at him, shrinking back as far as he could when his arm was still held in Bootstrap's grip. "I'm – I'm – sorry." His teeth were beginning to chatter. "I just wanted – wanted to see the cap – the captain."

Bootstrap Bill pushed the boy around so that he could see him. "Why?" When the boy did not respond, Bootstrap gave him a shake. "Why, boy? Who are you?!"

But the boy shook his head, still shivering, hair plastered against his head from the water. Some of the nearby crew was staring in spite of themselves, and a few were daring to draw nearer, curious: the boy's words carried easily in the still night.

"I just – want to see him," the boy said, with a stubborn set to his jaw that was so familiar it took away his breath.

He wanted to see the captain. _Father_ , he had called out to him. The boy had shouted _Father_ , while staring up at Will. At his son.

The thought was forming, insistent but not wanting to be realized. Bootstrap grasped the boy again. "Look at me, lad," he ordered.

The child stared at him, and Bootstrap stared back. Under the moonlight, the boy's features were thrown into relief, but still he could see – the shape of the eyes and the brow and the lips, the length of the face.

The realization slammed into him, harder than any wave he had ever encountered.

This was Will's son. _His_ grandson.

Had Will known? He could not have, had never mentioned it. Was this Elizabeth's child? And somewhere his mind brought up another memory and he realized they were standing only a few feet from where Bootstrap had first encountered Will on the _Dutchman,_ and he had to fight inexplicable, painful urge to laugh.

He heard footsteps, saw Will coming down from the quarter deck. His steps were heavy, face almost… petrified, and Bootstrap realized that his son had just arrived at the same conclusion as him.

At the same time, he remembered just where they were, and who was around.

"Get back!" shouted Bootstrap, releasing the boy from his grip. He glared at the braver crewmembers who had tried to sneak closer despite his commands. "All of you! Below decks, now!" Some of the ones furthest away scurried off, but not enough – there was still a disobedient grumbling from them. "Do as I say, you scurvy bastards!" he roared, real anger in his tone. "Get down below or it'll be a lashing for all of you!"

At that the men rushed away, fleeing to the gun deck and down the steps. Bootstrap looked up and saw Will only feet away from them – and the boy, who was staring at him with what looked to be absolute terror.

Bootstrap whispered, "Tell him your name, boy," and gave him a gentle push forward.

Will took the last step – and then only stood there, staring at the boy. Emotions raced across his face and that of the boy's, too quick to be identified.

Bootstrap had hated his time under Davy Jones, but he had learned one thing – when it was best to leave a scene. And now he did that, backing away until he was in the shadows of the overhanging roof placed over the deck. With water still pouring away from the decks, and the lamps doused and the mast and riggings hanging with seaweed from their submersion, the ship looked like one from out of a nightmare, like Davy Jones's _Dutchman_ come again. And when Will drew nearer, the barnacles livid under the night sky, Bootstrap had a sudden notion of what his son had been feeling that rainy night they encountered each other on the _Dutchman_ – betrayed by a friend, confused, and confronted with a man bristling with sea life. And his son had been a man grown, while here there was only a fearful, half-drowned child.

Will was now only a foot away from the boy. The ship was still shifting atop the waves and under the swirling water, and he saw the boy stumble. Will suddenly knelt – perhaps he too was unbalanced – and the boy instinctively grabbed onto his coat to steady himself. Just as quickly he recoiled back – but Will grabbed ahold of the child's arms, holding them gently.

"What is your name?" Bootstrap heard Will ask.

The child's shivering seemed only to increase. "Henry," he said. "Henry Turner. Son of William and Elizabeth Turner." Emotion flashed across Will's face. The child continued, as if in recitation, "My – my full name is – William Weatherby Henry Turner. William, for my – for my father, and his father. Weatherby for her father. And Henry for myself."

 _Another William Turner,_ Bootstrap thought. Three generations of them on this ship. What kind of cruel god would arrange this?

Will was still staring. He raised a shell-encrusted hand and reached for the boy; thankfully the child did not flinch back this time. Bootstrap could not see Henry's face, but Will's was clear under the starry skies – curiosity and awe and longing, all mingled together. Slowly, Will gripped Henry's face in his fingers, tipping the boy's chin up. His eyes moved across the boy, and Bootstrap knew he was seeing what he already had – his own features, and his wife's, in a new form.

Without warning, Will moved forward, wrapping the boy up in his arms. Bootstrap saw Henry stiffen in surprise – but in the next second, the child went limp, arms coming up as well. Will's fingers were wrapped tightly in Henry's coat, eyes half-closed in astonishment, the joy of discovery, and Bootstrap had no doubt that Henry looked exactly the same.

As Will backed away, lips rising in a sudden grin, still holding for dear life onto his son – as Henry's shivering body loosened and he held onto his father's coat, barnacles and all – Bootstrap could only think that this father-son reunion had gone far better than his own.

* * *

When he sat back and looked, actually looked, at Henry – his _son_ – Will could see that the boy was shivering intensely, was probably freezing from the cold water. His son could not quite seem to meet his eyes, sometimes darting up to look at him, then just as quickly looking at the ground. His appearance, Will thought; not only were both of them still drenched, he knew the growth of barnacles had accelerated. He remembered his own disgusted flinch when he faced his father for the first time in over a decade, and it stalled his urge to scoop up the boy and hold him tighter, to feel the solid realness of this child he had just laid eyes on.

Vaguely, he also realized that there was almost nobody on the ship except for himself, his son, and his father – he had a distant memory of them being ordered below deck. As if to remind him, he glanced up and saw Bootstrap Bill standing in the shadows, watching them. At his glance, his father nodded, then headed below decks, perhaps to get dry clothing. Or drier. Their aborted dive into the sea had no doubt soaked everything with water again.

Their dive. He had almost swept his own son overboard. The thought alone made him tighten his grip on Henry again, despite his previous attempt not to. No doubt another reason for the child to fear him. Another urge was rising in him – to not have this boy, his son, recoil every time he looked. To explain.

He crouched low, pushing Henry's face up again. "Henry. I – You –" He felt as clumsy and fumbling as when he was still a lowly blacksmith's apprentice trying to speak to the elegant and refined governor's daughter. "You're cold," was all he could say.

Henry nodded. Strands of his hair were getting in his face from his shaking. Will let go of him, and offered a hand, the one with less growths on it.

"Here then. We'll – let's go to my quarters."

Somewhat to his relief, Henry did not hesitate to take his hand, but he still seemed to find it difficult to look at him. In silence, the two turned and entered the nearby cabin, Will closing the door behind him before lighting the lamps. Under their glow, he could see Henry's features even more clearly, could see something resembling his own face in the brow and eyes, and something of his father and mother, with just a touch of Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. She had not said a word about Henry's existence. When he had been sailing towards the island, on his return from the land of the dead, Will had thought he'd seen a small figure holding onto her, but she had dismissed it. Only a boy from the village, she'd said, curious about the fabled green flash and now back in his parents' home. And then she had drawn him into her bedroom and he had forgotten all about young boys or anything else, save for her.

He gripped the nearby wall for a moment. He had no doubt Henry was his son, or that she had remained faithful. But to not even mention that they _had_ a son… he could not quite smother the sting of betrayal there.

He turned his gaze back on his son. Henry was standing near the doorway, still shivering and staring at the nearby table, where lay Will's meal. The crew of the _Dutchman_ did not need to eat or drink, or sleep, or even breathe, allowing them to stay underwater indefinitely and ferry souls without need for supplies. But they still felt the pangs of hunger and thirst, the ache of fatigue or the agony of the lash and, amongst the less disciplined, the lust for flesh. Will himself would still take meals, though usually it was only one, which he would pick at throughout a day.

Henry, of course, was different.

"You're hungry?" Will asked. Henry jumped and turned to look at him. Will pulled out the chair and gestured towards the food, not caring if the two of them dripped water everywhere. "Go on. Eat."

The boy hesitated, but could not resist his hunger for long. In seconds, he was sitting at the table and tearing apart a roll. Disposing of it in a flash, he made his way through the salted pork and spooned up a nearby bowl of porridge. Will came over, sitting down to just stare at the boy. The past half hour felt unreal, and he half believed he was dreaming, that he had gone as delusional as his father had once been and created a son in his embittered mind. He wanted to take in all of Henry's features, to hold his hand again to assure himself that this child was real, that this was his son who had made his way aboard the _Dutchman_.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask, and they all clustered in his head demanding to go first so that he could only blurt out the one that made the most sense at hand. "How did you eat while you were on here?"

Henry paused, a guilty look crossing his face. "I – I was hiding in the hold. There was food there… and sometimes I went up to the galley and would… take some." Henry's eyes glanced over the barnacles on his face. Will knew they had to look even worse under the light, but Henry seemed to take it in stride and bent over his food again.

"We searched the hold," Will pointed out, still wondering how his son could have gone unnoticed.

That guilty look again. "I – hid in a barrel."

Will could not help smiling. Yes, a child would fit there where a grown man would have difficulties, and his crew had not been searching for a child. "That's… clever."

For the first time, he saw a smile pass over Henry's face, shy and hidden. Then it was back to the food, and back to Will marveling over him, every movement, every change in expression. He could see a lot of Elizabeth in his mannerisms and the way he spoke. With a rush of feeling, he wondered how Henry had grown up, with only his mother for all his life. Will, at least, had had his father for a few years, enough to retain some memories, but Henry had none. And still he had stowed away on his ship, determined to look for a man he had never met and probably knew only through Elizabeth's stories.

"Were you happy with her?" Will asked, then made to clarify. "With your mother?"

Another small grin. "Yes." Then he dropped his eyes. "But… I missed my father." He picked at the porridge a moment. "All the boys in the village had fathers. They talked about them. I didn't."

And so he had lived with the hole in his childhood, one Will could well remember – like a gap, often unnoticed but which ached when attention was drawn to it. He suddenly wished his own father was with him, to talk with him about this. _You owe me nothing, Will,_ Bootstrap had said long ago, an implicit apology there for abandoning him – and though Will had not left his wife and unknown child willingly, nevertheless, he was not there with them.

He wondered, too, how Elizabeth had dealt with the last ten years – alone, without her husband, and then with child and having to raise him by herself. It could not have been easy. And yet when Will had seen her, she had seemed unmarked by any hardship – she would not be the Elizabeth he loved if she had not risen to the challenge and learned to thrive under it.

"Do you…" Will hesitated, not sure if Henry could answer this, but went on. "You know that I did not know about you." Henry nodded. "Do you know why your mother did not tell me?"

Henry's spoon stopped at the edge of his mouth. "No. But she…" He frowned, clearly thinking. "She just told me that… she wanted one day with you… and that she would let you see me in the morning."

"The morning?" Will pondered it a moment. "When did she tell you this?"

"At sunset, when we saw the green flash." He lowered his spoon. "I ran away after you left."

Will let his son continue eating, now at a slower pace. He thought he knew what Elizabeth had done. Neither of them had been sure that their one day would become two, then three, then weeks and months and years. They had hoped, but could not know until the sunset of the next day had passed. So she had hidden Henry away, not wanting father and son to meet until she knew they could be together, to spare them the pain of having to be apart. As before, she would have resolved to bear this burden herself.

Remembering his own words to her – _I won't return_ – Will found himself agreeing – and understanding. Was his own leaving her not for the exact same reason – to spare Elizabeth more pain? There was no place for his son here. He would have to go back to his mother – and Will would not see him again. It might have been easier for him to have not known about this son at all.

Henry lowered his spoon again. "Father," and the word seemed to strike something in Will's nonexistent heart. The boy began picking at a spot on his coat. "I'm sorry."

Will was taken aback and stared. "For what?" If anything, _he_ was the one who had more to be sorrier for…

"For… this." And Henry reached out hesitantly and hovered his hand over Will's, where the barnacles grew. "I didn't know that… when I was hiding on your ship… that I was making everything… bad. I just wanted to meet my father. Mother told me so much about you."

Will had opened his mouth to speak, but could find nothing to say. Was this why he was so frightened? Because he thought his father blamed him for his state? He knew that he had just committed himself to another night without souls to ferry, knew it would continue to exacerbate the changes in his appearance, but at that moment, with his son sitting almost tearfully in front of him, Will could not care less about it at that moment.

"Henry…" He held the name a moment, still unfamiliar. "Do not blame yourself. None of this is your fault." He took a long breath. "If there is anyone who should be apologizing, it's me. I nearly had you swept overboard."

His son gazed up at him. "But you said you couldn't ferry souls because of me."

Never had he regretted a speech more. "I didn't know. If I had known it was you, and why you were on here, I would not have said that." He reached for the boy again, unsure if Henry would accept his touch, but he did, letting Will run his thumb across his jaw for a moment. "I am... sorry, for what I did."

Henry had gone still when his father had reached over, but he did not seem frightened anymore. He met Will's eyes. "It's all right... Father." And when Will withdrew, he thought he saw disappointment flash across Henry's face at the loss of contact.

It seemed to release something in Henry, and he ate more quickly. Soon he was finishing his food and yawning. His clothes were a little drier, but Will still told him to take off his coat, shoes, and stockings so it could dry faster, and let him sit on the chair with a blanket from the bed wrapped around him. He wanted to ask him more questions, about his childhood, about Elizabeth, about what he did and what he learned, but it seemed that the next moment he looked, Henry was lying on the chair with the blanket tucked around him, asleep.

* * *

Henry had only meant to close his eyes for a second, but he had been so comfortable and warm and happy (his father did not blame him!) that he couldn't help drifting off… and when he next opened his eyes, there was a cold spot beneath his head and all the lamps were doused except for one at the big table with a lot of maps. It was directly across from him, so that if he opened one eye just a tiny bit, he could see the dark shape of his father hunched over a map.

His father. Henry had to resist the urge to sit up and go to him. They had only spoken a few moments, but he was so much like how his mother had described him, even with the barnacles, kind and stern all at once but happy, happy to see him –

A quiet knock at the door had him shutting his eyes and dropping his head down. He heard footsteps cross the room and open it.

"First mate wants to see you," someone outside said.

There was a quiet murmur, too low to decipher, then two sets of footsteps and the sound of the door swinging close.

"Spent enough time with your son?" asked one voice – not his father's, it sounded older.

"Is that why you took so long?" That _was_ his father, sounding a little amused. "You did not need to stay away for so long – he is also your-"

The other interrupted. "A father is more important. Every man should have some time with his son, especially lost ones. How is he?"

The pair of footsteps drew quite close to him. "Ate, drank. He's asleep now."

Their voices sounded like they were coming directly over him. Henry could feel their presence near him; he imagined them standing there, looking down at him. He did his best to appear asleep. It must have worked, because he heard them walk away a few seconds later. Only then did he dare open his eyes a crack. His father and the other man were back at the table, where the lamp illuminated their faces. Henry recognized the new arrival now – it was the same man who had been up at the wheel with his father – the first mate, which was what the sailor at the door at said.

When his father next spoke, all the humor was gone. "I nearly killed him."

The other man moved closer. "Will-"

"We could have searched harder."

"You did not know."

"I should not have done it in the first place. Even if it wasn't my son – I might have drowned him, or swept him off the ship. What kind of way is that for a father to meet his son?"

"I recall having to flog you when I met you again." A creak. "I know what it is, to hurt someone without intention to do so."

There was a short pause, during which Henry almost put his head up. This man had _whipped_ his father? And why did he called him _Will_ and not _Captain_?

"You know I forgave you for that," said his father. In the light, he looked angry and earnest all at once.

"Then he will forgive you for this," said the first mate, gesturing at Henry, who hastily closed his eyes. "You are his father."

There was a rustle; Henry's father was shaking his head. "I do not feel like it. I did not even know until an hour ago - and now he's here, and I don't know what to do with him."

"You are doing far better than I ever did," said the first mate. "Particularly for one who did not have much of a father in his own childhood." There was a sound, possibly of protest, but the first mate just held up a hand. "No, do not try to defend me. Look to your own son instead."

For a few moments there was nothing said, the only sounds that of the ship creaking back and forth or the flicker of flame in the lamp.

"What do I do with him?" Henry heard his father whisper again.

He opened his eyes a moment and saw now that the two men were huddled quite close to each other, their voices almost whispers.

"What do you want to do?" asked the other man.

His father jerked his head up. "I have my duties to attend to. Three nights I've gone without ferrying those souls to the afterlife. It will start to affect all of us."

"That's all?"

Another pause, the longest so far. "No. I would like to… know him. He's my son." Another creak, Henry wasn't sure if it was the table or ship. "But he cannot stay. And I cannot know him. I told his mother I would not return. This…" There was another silence. "And he's not bound to the ship. The crew are already uneasy, they do not like him on here." Henry bit his lip.

"Do not think of the crew, I will take care of them. Think of yourself for once, Will."

"Myself? But Elizabeth will be missing him." There was a dry chuckle in response, and a silence. Then: "What should I do?"

The older man moved around the table. "You will have to bring him back. We will need to return to the land of the living. Sunset, perhaps."

A nod. "Yes. You're right."

"But Will-" the first mate attempted to say.

"No. This is… selfish. Foolish."

"Will."

"We should wake him. Tell the crew-"

" _William_." Henry saw the first mate grab his father by the arm. "You'll have an entire day before we can return. What do you intend to do during that time?"

"Take him back to his mother-"

"That will only take a few hours, perhaps less. _Will._ " The man stepped in front of him. "Even I had you for a few days on the _Dutchman._ If you do not plan to ever return, then let yourself have some time with your son."

A long breath. "I should not."

"Aye." The first mate released his arm. "Because of the pain of leaving him."

"Yes."

The only sound was that of the light, flickering against the glass panes of the lamp. Henry waited with some trepidation, not sure what his father would say. He knew he had to go back, but he wanted so badly to stay, at least for a little while.

Finally, the first mate said, "You remember, when you were on the _Dutchman_ with me? I sometimes wished you might stay. _There_ was selfishness… wanting you there when Davy Jones was captain and all of us were bound to the ship."

"You told me to go."

"It was best for you. It's not selfish for a father to want his child with him, just so long as he does the right thing for them. I knew what was safest for you. You know it for your son. But let yourself know _him_ , especially if you do not wish to return. A boy ought to have some memories of his father."

His father was staring at the man. "How do you know all this?"

"I've been at this longer than you have," said the other man, sounding quite dry about it. There was a creak as he stepped back. "Shall I alert the crew that we'll be going down come sunset?" Henry saw his father nod. They both began walking towards the door, and Henry squeezed his eyes shut quickly as they passed by.

"And Will." Henry heard the footsteps pause. "Being a father longer, I should tell you… your boy's not asleep."

And as Henry stiffened in surprise, he heard the door open and close, leaving him alone again with his father.


	4. Chapter 4

Will knelt down near the boy, studying him under the dim light. Now that his father had mentioned it, he could see that Henry was not asleep – his breathing was a shade too quick and his eyelids were fluttering.

He took the dry clothing Bootstrap Bill had left for him and gave Henry a shake. "Henry. No need to pretend."

The boy opened his eyes, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry. I – I didn't want to say anything."

Will managed to smile, the line of his skin pulling tight where the barnacles were clumped closer. "Change into this," he said, holding out the clothes. "They'll probably be too big, but you should let your own dry out."

Henry obeyed him, stripping out of shirt and pants. There was a dark spot on the chair where he had slept, and the blanket that had been draped around him was damp as well. Will put it aside, and when Henry was done (the shirt definitely too large, baggy and hanging to his knees, and the wrist cuffs had to be rolled up), led him to the large bed in the center of the room.

"But don't you need it?" was Henry's first question.

"I don't sleep during the night," Will said. It was only half an explanation – he did not need to sleep at all, part of the curse that kept him on the _Dutchman_ and one which affected all the others bound to the ship. He knew crewmembers who had gone without it for several weeks with no ill effects. Henry appeared satisfied with that explanation and crawled into the bed.

"I have a lot of ships and soldiers at home," Henry told him. He kicked his legs under the thick covers so that they formed large ridges and swirls. "Mother used to tell me stories with them." He peered up at Will. "Did you really sail in a _maelstrom_?"

"We did. Your mother and I were married in the middle of it as well." _And died in it._ He wondered if Elizabeth ever mentioned that. Will hoped not; the memory of Davy Jones's sword twisting in his heart, the strange distant shock of recognition when he saw the weapon – _I made that_ – and Elizabeth's sobbing, were still painful even after a decade. And the cost of coming back from it had been heavy.

Henry was watching him, apparently waiting for him to tell more. _Very heavy,_ he thought.

No regrets, he told himself. It was something his father had told him, once during one of their calmer nights. The seas had been kinder that day, less souls needing to be looked after on their journey to the afterlife. It was always on those nights that he missed Elizabeth the most, the ache in his chest so terrible he would wonder if his father had made a mistake and missed cutting out his heart. Surely with it gone, it could not have hurt so much? Perhaps it was not in the chest and that had only been a delusion he made up.

They both, he and his father, had his regrets, wishes that they had done something different. Maybe if Will had fought harder. Maybe if he had not glanced at Elizabeth and drawn Davy Jones's particular ire for lovers. Maybe if Jack had been able to stab the heart a little faster. Then it would not be him at the helm of _Dutchman_ , but Jack, and he would be at home with Elizabeth.

"Maybe I could have resisted becoming part of the ship longer," Bootstrap Bill had said. "Maybe if I hadn't fought you, distracted you. Maybe if I could have taken Elizabeth out of Davy Jones's way. Maybe if I hadn't seen you at all on the Dutchman, hadn't bound myself to eternal servitude. Maybe if I hadn't sent you the piece of Aztec gold." He had shaken his head, something dark and heavy in his eyes. "Regrets, Will – they'll drown you. I know it. You'll spend your life wishing everything had gone differently and wasting what you do have."

If Calypso was wrong, Will had argued, then the rest of his life would be a very long one indeed.

"Aye. That will have to be seen." His father had not spoken for a moment, searching for the right words. "But you are not the only one who wishes things were different. We all made our choices in the end, and we have to live with it."

And that, oddly, had been its own source of comfort at the time. There was no way to change what had passed. He could only look forward and do what he could, and hope that the his service to the _Dutchman_ would be lifted.

But now the hope was gone, and looking at his son, it was difficult not to let the regrets flood him once again.

"Did your mother tell you about all our adventures?" he asked Henry pushing aside the dark thoughts. At some point, he would have to leave him, but while he could, he would enjoy the little time they had now.

Henry, whose eyes had grown heavy-lidded, perked up again. "Most of them, I think. Some of them she said you were there, and didn't know what happened."

"And which are those?" Will inquired, curious. It seemed Elizabeth was always at his side in his memories, perhaps because she had been on his mind for so many years.

Henry's eyes were lighting up now. "The first time you saw the Kraken. Mother said afterwards that you knew how to fight it when it attacked the _Black Pearl_."

"Did she tell you what happened afterwards?" Will asked, thinking of Elizabeth kissing Jack, of Jack going down with the ship.

He blinked. "No."

Will smiled again. Of course not. It was an odd sensation, being part of the stories now. Elizabeth, especially, had been fascinated with pirate stories, and had told them to him on the rare occasions when they met each other. They had been children then, and Will's master had still been trying to give him a half-decent education in blacksmithing, but Elizabeth had sought him out anyway. He had no idea why at the time, why the spirited, high-born governor's daughter would be speaking to a tongue-tied blacksmith's apprentice who had often felt dumb as an ox in her presence. But seek him out she did, whispering tales of pirates in the nearby islands, of the fantastical curses and myths out there, of their hidden dens in Tortuga.

When they found themselves a part of the stories, it was different. Elizabeth had told him first of the terror of Barbossa's crew, then of Jack's "escape" from the desert island. _The reality is always a lot messier than the stories,_ she had said wryly.

Henry's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Can _you_ tell me?"

Will shook himself. "You mean what happened when the _Pearl_ went down?"

"No, the first time you saw the Kraken."

All the men on the ship had died because of him, and according to his father, that had been when Bootstrap Bill had begun his descent into madness. "Perhaps another time. Were there any other stories your mother neglected to tell you?"

His son thought for a moment. "The Pelegostos? She said you rescued Jack Sparrow there, but she never told me how."

Yes, he supposed the tale of a tribe of cannibals would have to do. "Ah, that was an adventure. Captain Jack Sparrow rescued himself, I believe," he began. "But I was searching for him. Men around the Caribbean directed me there, but the ship I was on did not dare to land on its shores…"

The tale went on, though he left out details like what exactly the cages had been made of. But he doubted his son even noticed, occupied as he was with his valiant effort to stay awake. He lost the battle, and within a few moments was asleep, curled under the warm covers.

Will glanced out the window and saw it was nearing sunrise. They would not make the underwater journey back to the land of the living now, but sunset was as good a time as any. He stood and paused, stretching his left arm. The growth of barnacles were heavier, and he could feel them traveling up the cloth he kept wrapped around his head, and down behind his ears and growing in his hair. He hoped the crew was not affected yet, and resolved to ask among them to see.

All of it would be gone in a few days, he told himself, once Henry was back. But the thought was not as consoling as he thought it would be.

* * *

When Henry awoke, daylight was throwing shafts of sun through the windows and across his bed. He shook his head groggily, his hair mussed up and still clumped, and sat up. Even with the light, the cabin was still relatively dark, but he could not see anyone else in there with him.

His clothes had been thrown over the chair to dry, and he changed back into them. A meal was also waiting for him on the table, which he gobbled down. As he ate, he peered through the mullioned glass of the doors. The ship seemed active, the darkened figures of men passing by with regularity, rolling barrels or hauling on lines.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve (which his mother would have scolded him for, but she wasn't there), he opened the door and stepped out.

His ears were met with the sounds of the sea and the shouting of men. Ropes cracked in the air and the wood creaked under his feet with every shift of the ship. The seas were so calm that this movement was fairly small, but for Henry, unused to being on one, it was difficult to keep balance – and more so because the deck was quite wet. In fact the entire ship looked that way, the wood dark and shiny. Seaweed was draped over railings, the poles and masts speckled with grime and rust, and the sails were dark with what looked like mold. When he held onto a beam for balance, his hand came away wet and almost slimy.

And the men. He remembered what his father had said last night, about the crew not wanting him on the ship, and he hesitated now, not wanting to go among them. The ones nearby had caught sight of him. Most turned away, but one or two seemed to be glaring at him. He shied back, wondering if he should just go back to the cabin.

A hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't go down there."

Henry started and turned to find his father behind him. In the daylight, the growth of barnacles was more noticeable than ever. His father's coat also seemed more ragged, and the edges looked soggy with water. He even smelled a bit different – a little salty, a little fishy.

But this was his father and this was Henry's fault and he was a great big boy of nine years old, and he would not show that he was scared. Especially not in front of his father, who had fought undead pirates and cannibals and the Kraken itself.

"Will they hurt me?" Henry asked.

"No."

Henry swallowed. "But they're angry at me."

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "They'll obey me." Henry glanced down at it and quickly away, seeing shells and strange growths and not wanting to say anything.

His father seemed to notice, and removed his hand. "You're frightened." He stepped back. "You do not need to look if it scares-"

"I'm not scared." Henry forced himself to look up, and to hold his gaze. "And I don't care."

Will managed a smile at that. "Then you have your mother's bravery."

He found himself examining Henry in wonderment all over again at the sight of the boy in the daylight. He had hardly ever been around children much, and almost never in the last ten years, save for the ones tragically lost at sea, and he tried to recall everything about his own childhood and anything a boy might need. A child, one not dead or bound to the ship and utterly dependent on him, was a sobering thought.

"Have you eaten?" he asked Henry; if there was one thing he could remember about his own childhood, it was the constant ache of hunger.

Henry nodded. "Thank you," he said, and remembering his manners, "and thank you for the bed and clothing." He tried to absorb himself in looking around the ship. "Do you really ferry souls here?" he asked.

"I do."

"Are they here?" Henry glanced around, not really sure what souls looked like. He envisioned wispy ghosts floating around them and wondered if anybody in the crew was a "soul". They all looked a bit too solid, though.

Will shook his head. "Not here. They come in the waters, and only at night." He led Henry to the edge of the ship, pointing to the blue ocean. "The ones who drowned float beneath, while the ones who died aboard a ship come in boats."

"Where do you take them?"

"The afterlife."

"What does it look like?" Henry asked eagerly. He knew, of course, that there was a heaven for good people and a hell for bad, and that hell was a fiery place full of tortures, but heaven was a bit harder to think of.

His father only smiled again, but more sadly. "I've never seen it. We can't go there, because we're not dead. Only the souls enter. It's just… a fog." He pointed towards an area of the ocean that looked exactly the same as everywhere else. "During the nights, we lead them there, and when day comes, we come back, and find those who are lost."

"How do you find them?"

"I can sense them." Will led him up the stairs to the very top of the ship, where the wheel was. At the helm was the first mate, who Henry had seen last night. He regarded the much older man with mixed feelings. This was the same man who had rescued him when he had almost been drowned by the waters, and who had kept the angry crewmembers from attacking him, but Henry had also heard him say that he had whipped Henry's father. Why would he whip his father? Henry, whose mother had never raised a hand against him, could not imagine it.

"Henry, this is the first mate," said his father now. The man at the wheel smiled slightly and tipped his head at Henry. "Master Turner," he said.

Henry's father seemed rather amused as he said, "You can call him-"

Something strange happened then. Henry saw his father glance at the first mate for a second, looking oddly hesitant. And then he saw the first mate move his hand, like he was waving a fly off.

"Never mind." His father led him away from the wheel so they were looking out at the sea again.

Henry glanced between the two of them, feeling very much like he was missing something. "What do I call him?"

"Ah." His father looked rather funny then. "You can call him Mr. … First Mate."

Henry distinctly heard the first mate snort.

"Father," he said, pausing to try the word out. He wasn't sure how his father would react to the next question, but there were too many things going through his mind about this first mate. In a lower voice, he asked, "Is the first mate… good?"

His father frowned, which made Henry want to run back to the cabin and never ask any questions again. "He's a good man. One of the best I've known." There was a creak at the wheel. "Why do you ask?"

 _Because I heard him say he whipped you._ "My mother said that Jack Sparrow's first mate led a mutiny. And that he kidnapped her and tried to kill you." Though she had also said that Captain Barbossa had later helped them against the East India Trading Company… it was all very confusing.

And then the strange thing happened again. Henry saw his father and the first mate look at each other, and now he was sure that _something_ had passed between them. He could not describe what emotion the first mate was feeling – he looked at once both angry but also rather sad. It made Henry just feel irritated – he wasn't stupid, he could _see_ they were keeping something from him, but for some reason they didn't want to tell him.

Then his father said, "Captain Barbossa married your mother and I."

"He did?" His mother had never mentioned _that_.

"Yes. And most first mates don't lead mutinies."

"Oh."

Will placed a hand on his shoulder. "He has been here for ten years. I trust him."

It still didn't quite answer the question of why he would whip his father, but maybe it was another story that he would get to hear. So Henry accepted it.

* * *

Nearing sunset, the crew started becoming more active. Henry, on the few times he was amongst them, caught them tying down the cannons and taking supplies below; a few half-heartedly tried to get rid of the seaweed or scrubbed at the grime, to little avail. His father had spent some of the day practicing swordsmanship with him. Henry's mother had started teaching him the basics: the types of weapons used and the grip and the beginnings of footwork. She'd told Henry that it was his father who had taught her, and that she hoped he would teach Henry as well. She'd said that his father was the most skilled swordsman she had ever met.

"Then why did he lose so much?" Henry had wondered at one point. It seemed that many of her stories would begin with his father in a duel but end with him being beaten. Or knocked out. Sometimes both.

She had laughed. "Because he's also one of the most _honorable_ swordsmen I've ever met, and everyone else always cheated."

And now he had been taught by his father for true. They had practiced with mock swords in the captain's cabin, his father correcting form and technique ("Arm extended," he had said, circling Henry with an expert's eye. "Remember, it is a series of attacks and parries. Watch your form."), practicing against the sparring dummy and against his father himself (who "lost" against Henry the first time, which Henry protested, and afterwards gave no quarter). And there were more stories: stories about the curse of the Aztec gold and how his father had stolen the _Interceptor_ , or how he had tried to infiltrate the den of Sao Feng, or what the Kraken had looked like. At other moments, Henry had told his father about himself - growing up with only his mother, playing with the village boys, his studies, what he did at play, what he wanted to do in his future. Will had soaked up every bit of information, wanting to know as much as possible about this son he had not known he had.

They had not gone below deck. Will had said it was because Henry had already gone down there, but Henry also thought it was because of the crew – he had seen more men sending him sour looks when they thought his father was not looking. It brought that knot of guilt, temporarily forgotten during their practice, back to the forefront.

Now, having emerged back outside and looking around at all the activity at his place near the wheel, he asked his father, "What's happening now?"

"We have to return to the land of the living," explained Will. "Has your mother ever told you how we did it when we rescued Jack Sparrow from the Locker?"

"Yes, but I didn't really understand it," admitted Henry. Something about falling off the edge of the world, and tipping the ship over...

Will led him back to the cabin, explaining all the while. "Whenever the sun crosses the horizon, this world and the land of the living... tips." He used his flat hand to indicate this, palm facing down, resting a tiny toy ship he had grabbed from somewhere on top of it. "And the water tips with it, so if you flip the ship when it's underwater-" he did so, so that the ship was under his hand, resting against his palm "-then at sunrise or sunset, the world tips-" he flipped his hand, "-and all the water comes down with it."

Henry struggled to comprehend this. "But isn't the world round?" His eyes traveled to the globe in the corner of the room.

That made his father give a surprised laugh. "It is. Let me see…" He appeared to think for a moment, then went over to the table and brought over a map. It was only of the islands and seas around them, but effective enough for his purpose.

"Think of this map as a slice of the top of the globe," he said, spreading out the roll. "You live here…" He tapped the small island where Elizabeth had made her home. "But we are… here." And he put his hand under the map, directly under the island, and tapped, pushing up the paper. "The land of the dead. It's how I can sense those who died, even if they are in the land of the living. Your mother and I, we tipped over the _Black Pearl_ so that it could end up-" Finger on top of the map again. "-back here."

Henry still wasn't sure he understood, but he didn't want to annoy his father with more questions. "Is that what we're going to do? Tip the _Dutchman_?"

"No." Will rolled the map up again. "We have a better method."

* * *

The sun was almost below the horizon, and Will and Henry were up at the wheel with Bootstrap Bill. Most of the crew were below – Will had not missed the rancor towards his son, and had also made it clear that he would not tolerate it. A few remained above deck to make sure nothing came loose, most of them carefully avoiding looking at Henry or catching their captain's eye.

Will had explained everything that was going to happen, and had learned of how Henry had survived the first dive by hiding down in the hold, but it could not alleviate his worry. Keeping them both above deck meant there was little risk of Henry drowning when the lower decks were flooded, but a much higher risk of the boy being swept away, as he almost had been when Will had thought of him only as a stowaway. And if they did not time their descent well, Henry might very well end up drowning anyway waiting for the waters to "fall".

His own father was probably thinking the same thing, judging by the small glances he kept sending their way. When Will met his eye, Bootstrap came over.

"Perhaps we should get a rope?" he suggested, gesturing towards Henry.

Will considered the thought, then nodded. As Bootstrap went off in search of one, Henry asked, "Why do we need a rope?"

"We're going to attach a line to you and tie it to the wheel, so you don't get swept off by the waves."

"Can I still stay here with you?" His father's nod seemed to reassure him, and he made little protest when Bootstrap returned and they began winding a length around Henry's waist. The other end they secured to the base of the wheel. Will kept checking the sun, watching it sink lower below the horizon.

"Make ready!" he shouted, causing Henry to jump slightly. He wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders. "Steady! Steady…" The sun continued to slip lower, lower, until there was only a sliver of light remaining. " _Down!_ "

With a crash, the bowsprit plowed into the water, splitting the waves so that they gushed down the sides, forming giant swirls about them. Foam and splash drenched the men on the lower decks and splashed into Will's face – he felt Henry grab onto his arm – and then the waters roared back over the ship as they sank into its depths, now tilting so that it was nearly vertical, Will feeling the familiar lilt of his gut –

Then the ocean rushed at and drowned him. The force of it slammed into him and he instinctively pressed Henry closer, feeling like the sea was trying to rip his own son from him. He had a sudden terrible thought of Henry drowning, of ferrying his own son's soul to the afterlife –

He grasped desperately at the wheel, though the foam was blinding him, and his hand found it just as the waters cleared. In the blue-black haze of the ocean, he could see his men bracing themselves against the water; the rope holding his son was fluttering madly against the current. The roar dimmed into the heavy silence of underwater, save for the low, haunting echo of the currents they had formed in their dive. The ship careened lower, slanting ever more vertically, heading for the darkness of the sea bottom –

Distantly, Will was aware of the sun sinking – and a flash.

And then the sea bottom was growing not darker, but lighter, it was forming not the solidity of sand and surface but becoming speckled, becoming roiling waves –

Then the water was meeting them once more, crashing down on their heads like a mallet, and the ship was plunging through, standing almost upright. For a second Will thought they had missed the angle, that they might tip backwards – then he heard a deep creak and felt another _swoosh_ of his stomach, the wind cold against his face, and the ship came plunging down. Its hull hit the water with a massive smash that almost sent him off-balance, the ship careening back and forth from the impact, but gentling as it found its balance – and in the distance, he could see the sun emerging from the horizon.

They were back.

As soon as he was steady, he turned his attention turned to Henry, who was coughing out a good deal of water. Will tried to untie the rope, but the knots had grown tight with the water and his own hands were too slippery. Fumbling, he pulled out his knife and cut it loose, tossing it aside. Henry swayed with the boat, looking dazed, and Will grabbed hold of Henry's shoulder, looking him up and down. "Are you all right?"

Henry nodded, but his dazed eyes and the way he leaning into Will's grip belied that. Will pulled him closer, steadying him against the wheel.

Someone stepped near him, proffering up a blanket. "Here."

Will sent a grateful glance towards his own father, then pulled off Henry's drenched jacket and laid the slightly less wet blanket over his body.

"Take him back to the cabin," Bootstrap suggested from somewhere behind Will.

"Right." He stood, taking Henry near him, and caught an amused look from Bootstrap. He shook himself; the presence of his son had become distracting, leaving him floundering on his own ship.

Being back in his quarters was something of a relief. Returning to the land of the living only made him feel more monstrous, the sunlight glaring down on the barnacles infesting his body. When his father had still been enslaved on the _Dutchman_ , his touch had been clammy, sometimes even slimy. Bootstrap had to have been aware of it, as he had avoided touching or coming too near Will. Now Will could feel it in himself, his hands seeming colder, wetter – but Henry clung to it with all his might, either not minding or not caring.

"Do you need to rest?" asked Will, stopping Henry near the bed and placing both hands on the boy's shoulders.

But Henry shook his head, pushing wet strands of hair away. "Are we almost there? Almost home?" He grabbed hold of Will's arm, and Will knew he wasn't asking because he wanted to leave, but because he was afraid his stay was almost over.

"No." Will led him back to the table, both of them dripping water all over the floor. "I'm going to figure out where we are, but once we do, we'll be able to get there quickly. The _Dutchman_ 's the fastest ship in these waters."

"Mother said the _Black Pearl_ was faster."

Will smiled, a memory forming. "With the wind, yes, it can outdistance the _Dutchman_. Against the wind, this ship has the advantage." He pulled out the maps. "Here. We'll find our location with this."

"How do we do that?" Henry asked curiously, still tucked in his blanket.

With maps and compasses and telescopes, with landmarks and charts and lines. Will let him see how the sailing master would mark out the fathoms and check the material of the seabed, with Will showing Henry the kinds of sand and rock and mud that could be dredged up. As they were met with certain island formations, they used it to plot out distances. And he let Henry try out the telescope; the boy had a small one at home but had never used the long glass.

"Could I see you with this? From home?" Henry asked, peering around with it outside the cabin.

Will shook his head. "No. You can't find me with any telescope, Henry."

Henry put it down. "I'll look anyway. Even if you're not there."

Will put his hands on Henry's shoulders, trying to find something reassuring. "Remember the map, Henry. I am there, even if you can't see me."

Henry twisted the telescope in his hands. "Will you think about us?" he asked. "Mother and me?"

Will knew he ought to cut their bond, knew that Henry would not ever see him again and that the kindest thing would be to tell Henry to forget about him - but looking at his son's wistful expression, he could not find it in himself to do it. "I'll think about you every day," said Will. "I thought about her every moment when I was gone."

Henry brightened slightly. "Then maybe I will find you. If you think about us, and we think about you, then you won't really be gone." He aimed the telescope again, missing his father's sad smile.

It was afternoon when they caught sight of the island Henry and Elizabeth lived on, though it was only a distant dark spot. Upon seeing it, Will felt Henry tense, and he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We have a few hours left," he murmured.

But knowing that the time of parting was near only seemed to make it go by faster. They needed time to row Henry ashore, and time for whoever went with him to come back, and so they came within sight of its beaches when the sun was still hovering above the ocean horizon. Will made ready the boat, hauling it down.

And now that the moment had come, Henry was nearly in tears. He had had less than two days with his father, and now he was supposed to leave and wait ten years for him to come back? It wasn't fair.

"Are you going to come with me?" he asked.

"The first mate will go with you," said Will, glancing back. Bootstrap Bill was waiting, and Will felt an odd twinge of familiarity. It had been a different time and a different captain, but this was the same place where his father had watched his son leave, not sure when he might ever see him again.

Henry ducked his head. He wished it was his father going with him.

"Can't I stay?" he said in a rush. When Will stiffened, he said, "I could tell Mother. Or she can come! We can all-"

"No." Will's voice was flat. "Not on here. Not either of you. The men here are not slaves, but they have taken an oath, and it changes you."

"I can take it-"

But his father shook his head, looking almost as stern and frightening that night Henry had met him. "There's no place for you on the _Dutchman_. You have to leave, Henry."

Henry rubbed his foot against his deck. A question was forming, gathered from half-understood remarks between his father and the crew. "You'll come back, though? In ten years?"

When his father hesitated, Henry knew the answer.

"Henry, you must let me go-"

"No!" He rushed towards his father but the older man held him back, pressing his hands against his shoulders. "No, Father, you _have_ to come back, we-"

"This is my fate, Henry." Will stopped his son's struggles, grasping his arms. "I'm bound to this ship for all eternity. You and your mother have to live your life. You have to stop waiting for me."

"No!" This wasn't fair, it wasn't _right_ – he only had two days with his father. "Father, _please-_ "

Will looked to his own father, and saw his own sorrow mirrored on the older man's face. "I'm sorry, son."

Henry rushed towards him, and this time Will met him on his knees, gathering him up. Henry clutched at him, and even though his father felt cold, and wet, and the shells were rubbing painfully into his face and he smelled stronger than ever of fish and the sea, he didn't care; all he could think was that this was the last time he might ever hold on to him.

"I'll find a way to free you," he whispered, and was puzzled when he not only felt his father tense, but saw the first mate snap his head around as well.

" _Don't_ ," Will said. He pulled back to look at Henry. "Do not try to free me. Whatever way there is, there's always a price to pay. And it's always a very high one."

"But I want to," Henry insisted, clutching at his father's shirt, still not understanding. "I want you to come home. I'll tell Mother, we'll find something, there _has_ to be a way to break your curse-"

Will put a hand to his face. "Stay with your mother, and away from the sea. That's all you need to do. Forget about me and the curse."

"I won't." Henry looked mulish, as stubborn as his mother had. "I don't want to."

"Henry," Will said, voice low. "This is my fate."

Before Henry could protest more, Will moved away, but it was only to snap something from his neck. He placed it in Henry's hand – a long necklace, made up mostly of string but with a few strange shells and metal objects attached. And he knew it was contradictory, to tell his son to forget him and yet leave him with this memento, but he no longer cared much about that. He put a hand to Henry's face, looking at him seriously.

"Tell your mother that I love her. That I forgive her for her deception, and understand why she did it. And tell her that we have a wonderful son and that I love him very much."

Henry could feel a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard, not wanting to embarrass himself or his father by crying here.

His father moved forward until their heads were only inches apart, then touched, his hand cupping the back of his son's head. Henry clutched onto his father's shoulders, even though the shells were digging into his skin, wanting to stay in that position, _wishing_ his father would just keep holding him.

Will pulled back; he was looking at Henry as if to memorize his face, knowing this would be the very last time he ever looked upon him. "It's time to go."

And then he was scooping up Henry and placing him on the boat, his hand lingering a moment on his son's face before releasing him, and the first mate was getting in beside him, but Henry didn't even notice, he was too busy watching his father drift further and further from him. And all too soon they were rowing away, but it was only when Will could no longer be seen that Henry push his face between his knees and began to cry, just a little.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time they were halfway to shore, Henry had stopped sniffling and was peering around himself. His father's necklace was still clenched in his hand, the small shells digging into his palm. He couldn't see anyone out on the sea, not even Mr. Petcher.

"Feeling better?"

The first mate's voice interrupted his thoughts. Henry wiped his face with his sleeve and hoped he didn't look too messy. He was much too old to be crying. In his hand, the strange objects hanging from the end of the necklace clinked as they nudged each other.

"I am, Mr.-" He stopped, still not knowing this man's name. And despite what his father had said, he was still unsure about this man who had claimed to have whipped his father.

The first mate ignored that, focusing on rowing with steady, even strokes. "There's no shame in crying. I'm sure your father did the same when his father left him to go pirating, though he was a fair bit younger than you are."

Henry frowned. "His father left him too?" His mother had said nothing of this.

"He did," answered the first mate, "and with much less regret, and much more willingness, than your own father feels leaving you."

Muddled up with emotion already, the words from the first mate only left Henry more confused. "My father... regrets leaving?"

"He does." The waves lapped against the small boat as the first mate examined Henry. "He knows the feeling of abandonment all too well."

"He does?" Henry looked back at the first mate. "How - how do you know?"

The other man glanced at him and sighed. "Because I was the one who left him."

Henry blinked. "You left him-"

"I'm his father, boy, Bill Turner, though most knew me as Bootstrap Bill."

Henry was so stunned that he sat there for almost a full minute, unable to absorb the new information. His father's _father_ – the first mate, who his father had said he trusted – who shared the same name as him – which made this man his –

"Grandfather!" Henry shouted, leaping to his feet and sending the rowboat rollicking. "You're my _grand-_ "

"Sit down, boy, before you knock the boat over!" the first mate – his _grandfather_ – exclaimed.

Henry sat with a thump, though he thought the man was doing quite well rowing the boat. He had known, from his mother, that his grandfather had decided to stay on the _Dutchman_ , but for some reason he had not put it together that he would still be there, had not even assumed he would be _alive_ –

"But – but you – you said you whipped my father!" he blurted out.

Bootstrap Bill seemed to flinch at that. "I did. It was a choice forced upon me by the captain then. But your father, being the man that he is, forgave me for it."

"Why you didn't tell me?" Henry demanded, the boat rocking as they drew nearer the shore.

He shrugged. "It seemed better to let you have your time with your father."

And it reminded Henry that this man would be going back to be with Will Turner, and he wouldn't. He would see his father again, when Henry and his mother never would, and the pit of misery threatened to overwhelm him and he had to look out at the water and try to rub away the burning in his eyes.

"Here."

Henry looked around to see his grandfather offering, of all things, a handkerchief.

"I'm not crying," he mumbled, taking it anyway.

"Of course not," said Bootstrap, sounding rather sardonic. There was only the sound of waves slapping against the boat for a few moments as Henry washed his face. Then Bootstrap said, in a gentler tone, "It was difficult for your father, to make his decision. He does not part with you or your mother willingly."

"Can't you tell him to change his mind?" Henry mumbled. He wrapped up the necklace in the handkerchief.

"I would do more than that, if I could," Bootstrap replied softly. "By all rights, it should be the other way around – myself on that ship for eternity, and your father free." He shook his head. "Seems no matter what I do, my debt always grow larger."

"Why?"

Bootstrap eyed him. "How much has your mother told of me?"

Henry's mind was head flooded with all the stories his mother had told him about the curse of Isla de Muerta and needing his father's blood and the desperate quest to free him. "A bit."

"You know it was me who sent him the Aztec gold?" Henry nodded. "Then you know that it was because of me that your father was set on the course for piracy."

"Mother said he liked it."

"Perhaps. But it was not a path I'd have chosen for him. It cost him." Bootstrap let the oars settle for a moment. "And it is not one your father wants for you."

Henry did not really understand all of this, but he did think of the conversation he had overheard between them and the way the two men had seemed to share thoughts or looks – and he thought he understood a little bit of that. But then _that_ reminded him that he would not have it with his own father, and it made him so miserable that he had to put his head down on his knees again.

A hand dropped on his shoulder, heavy and comforting and just a bit familiar. "There now, Henry," Bootstrap said gently. "You had a few days with your father. Let that comfort you."

Henry lifted his face. "He's not coming back. He said he wouldn't ever back."

"Aye, that's true," Bootstrap admitted, with a heavy sigh. The boat nudged up to the shore, coming to a halt, and the two stood. "Come, show me the way to your home. We don't have much time left." The light was turning the entire island a dark gold as the sun started to reach the horizon. Henry quickly checked that he had everything - that he was still holding his father's necklace - then clambered out the boat to follow his grandfather.

He pointed out the path that wound through the village and up the cliffs and which would eventually reach his house. "Is there no way for him to break the curse?"

Bootstrap began walking up the path, Henry jogging to keep up. "No. The captain of the _Dutchman_ must spend eternity at sea. The only one that may replace him is the one who stabs his heart." He looked at Henry. "You know what that means."

His father would die. His throat seemed to be burning as well. No matter what happened, he would lose his father.

And yet… his mother's stories pushed their way to the front of his mind. "It's a curse, though – like the curse of the Aztec gold!" He saw his grandfather grimace at that. "Curses can be broken, right? Maybe I can find a way!" Henry ran until he was in front of his grandfather. "Can you give my father a message?"

Bootstrap paused, looking down at him; there was a strange expression on his face, half wary, half fond. "What's your message?"

Henry clutched the necklace. "Tell him that I'll find a way for him to come home. That Mother and I will look everywhere, do anything, until we can free him from the _Dutchman_. That I promise that one day, he'll come home with us."

Bootstrap stared at him for one long moment. Then he burst into laughter.

Henry was indignant. "It's true! We'll find a way, me and Mother!"

"Oh, gods." Bootstrap shook his head, the laughter dying quick as it had started. "My son was right. There must be a curse on this family."

"A curse?" Henry repeated. _Another_ curse?

Bootstrap continued walking, and Henry had to run to fall back into step with him. "Listen to me, boy. A long time ago, I saw someone else pledge to break a curse on his father, and the price he paid for it was high. Far too high." They had passed the main square of the village and began trekking up the path to the hills. "Remember what your father said. Do not dedicate your life to this. Stay with your mother. Let go of your father."

"What about you?"

Bootstrap looked faintly surprised. "And me. Relinquish your promise." He grabbed Henry's arm. "Listen. You'll hurt your father more than you can ever imagine if you lose yourself to this."

"But I just want him to come _home_."

But his grandfather only sighed and continued walking. Henry was feeling more than a little irritated over this. Why did nobody _believe_ him? Why didn't they want him to do this? They kept acting like the curse was for forever, that nothing could be done. He squeezed the necklace harder in his palm. Even if none of them believed him, he _would_ find a way to free his father.

The path had become narrower, clustered with soft grass; not as many people came up this way. Some feet ahead, Henry could see his home, sheltered under the shadows of the hills. He pointed it out to his grandfather, and they began heading that way. He wondered if his mother was there, and was reminded of the fact that he had been away from home for over four days. She was probably very worried, and very angry, and the thought of facing her wrath made him shrink inside and slow his steps.

"Have to be quick, now," said Bootstrap, clearly noticing. "Sun's getting low."

It was indeed, just beginning to dip below the horizon, and Henry quickened his pace – though just a little. "Have you met my mother?"

"Aye. She's a fine woman. You are lucky to have her raising you." But he looked uncomfortable speaking about her and Henry knew enough not to ask more.

They were right up to the house now, and Bootstrap paused. "Go on then. Get yourself inside."

Henry looked around. There were no sounds coming from the house, no glow of the lamps lit inside. He took the door and pushed, and was not really surprised to find it locked.

"She's not there," Bootstrap said; Henry thought he seemed a little relieved by that.

"No." Henry peered around. "She might be searching the village for me. She did that the last time I was gone." He had wandered out to the ocean edge with a few of the young village boys and forgotten the time, was all it was.

Bootstrap hesitated. "You'll be safe here?"

Henry nodded. "I can – I can wait."

His grandfather eyed him. "I do not want to find you on the ship again, you hear?"

Henry shuffled his feet. "I know. I won't go, I promise."

Bootstrap looked him up and down a second but seemed to believe him, and began to turn. "Then I best be go-"

"Wait!" Henry dashed forward and grabbed his arm; now that it was time, he didn't want to part with the man, the last reminder of the time he had spent with his father. "You'll – you'll give my father my message, right?"

The other man sighed resignedly. "I will tell him, though I doubt he'll be pleased to hear it."

"You'll tell him I promised to do this? And that I'll watch for him too?"

Bootstrap's look was at once sad and affectionate, and Henry suddenly wished he had known who this man was when he was on the _Dutchman_ , that he might have tried to talk to him and know him as well. "I will." He removed his arm from Henry's grip, but gently, then laid a hand on his hand. "Keep safe, Henry Turner."

"Goodbye… Grandfather."

Bootstrap Bill acknowledged this with a nod, then turned. Before long, he was traveling down the hill and into the village, and was out of sight.

Henry, however, did break one promise. As soon as he saw that Bootstrap was gone, he ran down the slope from his home until he reached the cliff overlooking the sea. Squinting, he could see a tiny boat paddling up to a larger ship, half-hidden behind a cliff. As the sun continued its steady descent, he watched the ship set forth, sails flapping in the wind, traveling further and further away – and then he blinked as the sun fell, and it and the ship was gone from his sight.

And then there was nothing but emptiness both there and in himself, and he plodded back to his house. His eyes were burning again, and he swiped at his face with the back of his hand. The skies gradually darkened as night fell, as Henry waited near the door of his home for his mother to come back, lying on the doorstep and trying to think of every moment he had had with his father, every conversation. He was just starting to doze off when he heard soft footfalls and grass crunching underfoot.

"Henry!"

Before he had fully awakened, he was being swept up into a tight grip, breathing in the familiar smell of his mother.

"Mother-"

"You've been gone so long – I've been looking all over for you-" The hands were smoothing his hair, and Henry squirmed to get down. His mother dropped him, then grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Where did you go?" she demanded. "I came up at night, and you were gone - the villagers hadn't seen you, only Mr. Petcher, and he said he rowed you out to a _pirate_ boat-"

Mr. Petcher! "Did he find my hat?" Henry interrupted, forgetting for a moment that he was being scolded.

His mother made an exasperated noise. "Yes, he found your hat." She raised her lamp, and in the flickering light Henry looked into her beautiful face. She looked more tanned than he remembered, her hair gone golden from the sun, but the lines of her face were the same, only drawn with worry and growing anger. "What happened? Where did you go? How did you get back?"

"I – I went to see my father."

Elizabeth dropped to her knees in front of him. "Your father?" A sigh. "Of course. Henry, your father-"

"I know, he didn't... know who I was, at first."

His mother looked apologetic, and sad, and distant all at once. "Henry, I know you wanted to meet him, but I thought only to spare you pain.

"I know." He rubbed his neck. "I heard him leaving," he murmured to his feet. "And I – I wanted to see him, and talk to him, so I asked Mr. Petcher to row me out, and…" The rest of his words dissolved into a mumble.

"So you were on the _Dutchman_?" asked his mother.

He nodded. "I met him. He's-" _A pirate. A good man. Everything you've ever told me._ "My father."

"Was he..." Elizabeth hesitated, "...angry?"

He shook his head. "No. He wanted me to give you a message."

"What is it?"

It was not a struggle to remember; his father's words had been imprinted into his mind. "He says he loves you, and he understands why you didn't tell him. He says that I'm-" He stumbled. "-that you have a – wonderful son. And that he loves me, and loves you. And… to watch for him."

The way he said it, it almost sounded like his father might come back. He clung to that, and to his own growing conviction, as his mother smiled, and took hold of him and held him close. For a few moments, all that could be heard was their breathing and the wind whispering through the grass.

"Mother," Henry said into her shoulder, "I will find a way to free Father from his curse."

Elizabeth drew back, cupping his face in her hands. "Is that what you told him?"

He nodded, holding out the necklace to her. "I will. I'll find some way for him to come home, for us to be together. And when he does, I'll give this back to him." He gazed at her, resolute and knowing that she can see this. "I promise."

* * *

END


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